Guardian Algorithm
by Fizzy 13
Summary: 1st in my NS Series: Set 5 years after D-Reaper, Takato is recruited by a covert government organization known only as NS-8 and on the first day, wonders why Rika works there, when she allegedly died in an accident 5 years ago. Chapter 8 Uploaded!
1. MONTH 1: CHAPTER 1

AN: Okies, this be my first Tamers fic, and I can't say you'll be fully satisfied. It's a little confusing at first, but sooner or later, you'll understand what I'm talking about… hopefully. Now I present to you a li'l something I call 'Guardian Algorithm'. It might look like I ripped off a few things from the Matrix, Syphon Filter, and probably some authors here in this section, but I assure you, I brainstormed about it all by myself. Oh, yeah, and it's setting is 5 years post D-Reaper. Just a feeler, though, and as all feelers, is pretty short. Well, here we go!

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon Tamers, it belongs to Toei, Bandai, some other unmentioned organizations, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. There, satisfied?

Guardian Algorithm 

A Tamers fic

By Fizzy 13

MONTH ONE: INTRODUCTION

Lamentations and Invitations 

Agency Mainframe Building, Agency Pacific Branch Main Compound (Disguised as a Corporate Compound called D-Tech), Tokyo

Wednesday, 2145 hours, Local Time…

            A young brunette hacked furiously into the Networks owned by the mysterious organization known only as The Agency, searching for anything that could be used to shut this infamous covert group down. Of course, simply calling her 'young brunette' was merely scratching the surface, since that would, by most standards, be too vague. She was about the age of 18, chocolate hair that barely touched her shoulders, a little conspicuous ponytail separated from the majority of it by a green hair band to the left rear portion of her head, golden eyes focused on what she was doing. She was dressed in what most female spies from spy movies wore: a black, body fit sneaking suit, which sadly failed to accentuate her still underdeveloped curves (hint, hint). Traditionally, as well with most female spies, she also had a weapon or two… such as a silenced 9mm Browning that was strapped to her belt. Then there was that ever-reliable backpack that she carried her heavy-duty stuff around in.

            The sound of the tic-tac's caused by her hazardous speed of typing continued for some small period of time until she finally managed to procure a useful piece of information from the server concerning The Agency's latest and, no doubt, most notorious plans yet to be achieved: something known only as Project: Toto-Con. However, since fate was as timely, unruly, clichéd, and just plain annoying as it was, that was when a patrolling guard discovered the body of one of his comrades tucked nice and good into the bushes, and as what most guards do, sounded the alarm and announced that it was time for her to escape.

Not literally, of course, for had it been literal, she should've thanked him instead of downing him with a 9mm round as she burst through the building's front door, CD copy of Project Toto-Con in hand. But, as what happens in most spy movies, going out through the front door is the dumbest thing one can most possibly do since, as usual, that was where the search lights, armed guards, and men in black suits were piled up, all guns pointed at anything that dared to emerge.

            Obviously, with one look at all of those, she scrambled back up the flight of stairs with plans of going up to the roof and hijacking a B-627 Blackhawk as bullets and shells whizzed by, missing her by mere inches. She definitely didn't go into this building blindly, of course. Her partner had downloaded the schematics for the entire structure. Okay, so maybe she _was_ a little blind, since her partner was the one barking directions into her ear via commlink. Where he was? He was waiting in a black, inconspicuous-looking truck on the outside of the compound's walls near the Mainframe building. The thing was that the Mainframe building was attached to the walls, and thus all one needed to do was to grapple his or her way to the top. "Okay, Katou, now go up that flight of stairs, and you'll be at the helipad. You do know how to pilot a Blackhawk, of course?"

            "Um…" she replied with uncertainty as she kicked the rooftop door open, "Sorry, Hiroshi, I guess I forgot that I didn't."

            Special Agent Hiroshi Yamamoto mentally kicked himself for that, "Okay, time for plan B. Secure a line to the railing of the roof on the wall side and rappel down. The truck's just at the bottom."

            "Gotcha Hi—" Jeri stopped in mid-sentence at what she saw, "Uh, Hiroshi?"

            "Yeah?"

            "Why are that chopper's rotors spinning?"

            "What!? Oh, bad," his voice became that of worry. Apparently, from what he knew about these kinds of situations, somebody was prepping a chopper for launch, meaning that his partner wasn't alone on that roof. "Okay, listen. You've got to get out of there ASAP! You hear me? Now!"

            She made a dash for the edge and was about to secure a line to the railing when she just _had_ to look back. What she saw could not be good. It never was. It was a young man coated from chest to toe in what appeared to be some sort of high tensile armor pointing an AS-12 full-auto shotgun in her direction. Judging from his face, he looked just about her age—a year older at the most. The toothy grin that he flashed gave her the impression that they've met before somewhere. The real giveaway to his identity, however, was that he owned a spiky possibly 'gelled' creamy brown hairdo. "Long time no see, Jeri. Too bad I have to say goodbye so soon."

            Her eyes widened in realization of who he was. He was none other than— her thoughts got no further than that for at the precise moment of his name flashing through her mind, a load of buckshot had imbedded itself into her chest, practically punching her off the roof and down 16 stories to the cold hard cement sidewalk just beside the van, dead on impact.

The CD found its way into the bushes just beside the wall, and unfortunately, Special Agent Hiroshi Yamamoto was too busy in his useless efforts of checking his partner's body for life signs to even bother. Another life wasted for nothing. In her three years as a Junior Agent, she had so much potential to make it big. Truth be told, this was her first real world mission.

As her partner and handler, Yamamoto was held accountable for every screw up that she made, every successful mission, and, should the time come (and it did), her death. He blamed himself over and over for what happened, starting with asking himself why he never taught her how to fly a chopper, finishing with why he even bothered to take the responsibility of becoming her handler despite being the Junior officer that he was in the first place.

            That was when he noticed something sticking out from her backpack, which also happened to be the one she used for school. It was a little beat up from the fall, but was, more or less, still intact. It was probably a relic from her elementary days, he thought as he picked it up. He now held a brown, handmade, dog shaped sock puppet in his hand. "Still a kid after all," he mumbled with melancholic smirk as he carefully tucked it into his vest's pocket. Hoisting her onto his shoulder by the waist, Hiroshi whispered morosely into her ear, "Time to get you home, kid," as he brought her into the back of the truck and drove off into the night.

Some Random Location on the Top Level of the Digital World

Wednesday, 2246 hours, Shinjuku-Tokyo Time…

            It was nearly pitch black in the Digital World around this time, yet the darkness issue didn't seem to make any difference to the flame-haired girl who had just spun around by a hundred eighty degrees, a pair of 9mm Berettas blazing in her hands. This was most probably because she was wearing infrared goggles, allowing her to see the panorama with a brightness level that made it look as though it were in the middle of the day. Protecting her body from the harsh digital environment was what appeared to be an outfit that lots of government agencies' field operations teams wore: black pocketed Kevlar vest (inside of which was a matching black suit), corresponding multi-pocketed pants, gloves, not to mention the high-cut military boots.

            The current aim of her shooting was to hit a man in a black business suit, his eyes shaded by tinted wire-frame sunglasses, a communication earpiece positioned in his right hearing canal. These and a neatly combed hairdo implied the obvious: He was some kind of government agent… although the way he dodged her bullets at speeds fast enough to cause multiple afterimages of his upper body in different and difficult postures proved that he was something else.

            "Damn!" she cursed as both her clips went empty. She rolled behind a rock pillar, her back to it, simultaneously emptying her pistols' magazine chambers as she went for a fresh couple of clips attached to her belt. _Stupid algorithm just had to go renegade when I was supposed to have a whole night on the town!_  "DSP Launcher Program: Status Report," she had just finished reloading, and had turned her attention to an electronic device vaguely resembling a D-arc that was strapped securely onto her right wrist. On its screen, the words 'Recharge Status 92 percent' materialized, informing her that there was still a considerable amount of time before she could use her last resort weapon.

            Yet again, the auburn-haired teenager whirred around from behind the earthen formation to face her enemy… or at least where he used to stand. She frantically searched the area to the right of her line of sight for any sign of him, yet to no avail. Three gunshots from the left were her only clue as to where he stood at the moment. She turned her head to face three oncoming .50 caliber rounds and instinctively shielded herself with her right wrist, where the strange device was attached, speaking in more of a command than a statement, "Beam Shield Program: Activate!"

            A thin circle of cyan light seemingly popped out from within the device's monitor, its protective, buckler-like shape shielding her entire form from the nearing bullets. The shots, upon making contact with the light-­like substance, sank into it as they continued their trajectory for her face, stretching the material like a sheet of bubble gum inch by inch, slowing more as they did. They finally lost all momentum just millimeters from her nose, allowing the energy wall to retract to its original shape and practically spit them out. The pistol rounds dropped harmlessly to the ground.

            There was no time for celebration, though, for the man in black was already on the move, clearing nearly all of the 15-foot gap in less than a second as he prepared to make a painful blow that could easily break through her thin radiant shield and punch a hole through her chest. "Data Cutter Program: Activate!" the shield receded into the gadget and was almost immediately replaced by a green, luminescent wedge. This she used to slash at the entity, no longer possibly a human, which was countered by his reaction of using the butt of his gun, an Israeli Desert Eagle, to deflect the blade, resulting in the former's evaporation into fine bits of data.

She followed that move up with a clockwise spin-kick for his head to knock him off balance, which he intercepted with relatively little effort by grabbing her offensive leg with his right hand, thus causing her plan to backfire as he quickly maneuvered her body in its currently malleable state into a tight headlock from behind. His chokehold continued to tighten to the point that she dropped her guns as she brought her hands up to her aggressor's arm in attempts to wrestle it away.

            "Ack!" asphyxiation was inevitable in this kind of situation, and the only way she could possibly escape was for some unprecedented miracle to occur.

            "There is no relevance in resisting, human," the agent's monotone voice entered her right ear, "Even if you do manage to escape, once 60 percent of all active Guardian Algorithms have been liberated from the system, neither you or the system itself will be a threat any longer." The only thing that got past her lips was a guttural oxygen starved growl as her enemy's grip intensified. "Now, however, since you are still a problem, I am thus obliged to eliminate you."

She felt the constriction worsen even more and was losing all hope of survival… that was until a loud beep was emitted by her gadget followed by a monotone and computerized female voice, "DSP Program: Recharge Status at 100 percent. Number of rounds available: five."

            This was her one chance at making the mission at all, if not keeping herself in one piece. The Data Simplifying Pulse, or DSP for short, was her organization's primary and most effective anti-digital weapon, which scrambled all forms of basic or advanced information structures within a two-meter radius and reduced them to nothing but lumps of raw data. It wouldn't matter what happened to her, though, so long as the Network's Safety was ensured. Cocking her head to the right, and activating her DSP Launcher Program, she thrust her right fist at her opponent's face, and in a strangled voice, made what was probably going to be her last corny one liner in the Digital World for a long while, "Eliminate this!" before a blast of pure white made contact with the agent's face. The impact generated a loud explosion of unseen force at least four meters in diameter, encasing them both within its influence.

            The black suited program began to deform, some parts of his figure bulging, others imploding, while he continued shouting a muted incoherence about bunnies, Billy goats, and how they were related until he finally burst into countless fragments of raw 1's and 0's. A passing data stream was eventually sent by the Network Security System known only as Virgin and picked these up to induct into the data recycling system that it possessed. The girl could only smile calmly as she felt herself begin to disintegrate. It was a heroic way to get one's salary sanctioned by over 50 percent, no doubt, but heroic nonetheless. This idea ran into her mind as the last of her consciousness slipped away…

WARNING: MANDATORY LOG OUT DETECTED…

AUTHENTICATING LOG OUT AND IDENTIFYING USER…

USER IDENTIFIED…

USERNAME: FOXQUEENMON

ID NUMBER: 63974-08

SECTION ASSIGNMENT: NS-8

JURISDICTION: ASIA PACIFIC ZONE

MANDATORY LOG OUT AUTHENTICATED…

PLEASE STAND BY FOR REANIMATION, THIS MAY TAKE A FEW MINUTES…

Virgin Chamber, 18th Floor - NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Wednesday, 2301 hours, Local Time…

            Agent Rika Nonaka expelled the green fluid from within her mouth, gasping for breath as soon as the rest of the stuff she was suspended in drained away. With the exception of the electrodes attached to several parts of her body, she was completely nude, her soaked and by now longer Sunkist-colored hair clinging to her shoulders and the upper half of her back. That was the last time she was going to allow her persona to get erased by her own DSP Launcher. The door to her cylindrical tank opened upon her touching it and, sticking her head out, her purple eyes were at once filled with irritation at who stood in front of her bare form admiring the view with a strangely solemn expression plastered to his face, very different from the joker of an officer she knew. Not that she knew him that much, besides the fact that she was Jeri's superior and handler. He was more well known as a cold, taciturn operative. "Yamamoto… get… out…"

            He just stood there and continued to stare. As time went by (some intense four seconds to be exact), she noticed emptiness in his eyes. Something was missing. What was it? She could not make out its identity. That was… until she saw what he held rather absentmindedly in his right hand. She had realized then, that he was in a state of shock. For what his hand kept was never given to anybody by its owner, not even for a second. The owner wouldn't even let it away by a meter before she went hysterical from distance sensitivity. It was Jeri's old doggy sock puppet. What was its name again? Sparky? Spike? Something like that.

            Snagging a towel from a nearby rack and wrapping its protective gentleness around her fragile body, her expression softened as she faced him once more, "Yamamoto? What's wrong? Where's Jeri?"

            His insecure grasp on the puppet clenched into a fist, shaking convulsively from guilt. His eyes made contact with his finely polished leather shoes, a sign of difficulty with speech. His lips finally parted, "I'm sorry, Nonaka. I tried as best I could to save her." He shook his head.

            "Wha… what are you talking about?" she asked in disbelief.

            "Katou's gone, Nonaka, and Sakamori wants me to get a replacement for her… someone with a similar background." Hiroshi finally managed to gasp. Telling at least half of the reason why he was in the Virgin Chamber with an almost nude acquaintance of his late partner had lightened the steadily increasing weight on his chest a little.

            "That's… it?" she half-retorted, "My friend has just been KIA'd and you say that to me as if that's it!?" Rika's eyes narrowed into slits of anger. How could he be so indifferent?

            "There was nothing I could do!" the Junior Officer answered rather harshly in defense of his position, softening upon the next of his statements, "There was nothing anybody could've done. You just have to face facts, Nonaka. Jeri Katou is dead."

            "What'll you tell her parents? They think she works part-time at a bank and that you're one of her co-workers." Her eyes shied away, "As far as I know, nobody cares about me anymore, since you guys faked my death when I was recruited by NS-8 practically just after the D-Reaper was taken down."

            "Sakamori gave me the perfect excuse: She got caught in a crossfire between security and a gang of armed men who tried to rob the bank. Our contact in the media has already made a cover story for it."

            "Is that everything you came to tell me?" the toweled teenager asked, "Or is there something else you have to say?"

            "When I asked Sakamori about where in the world I was going to find someone with a similar background, he told me to ask you, since you were one of those people." his face became that of pure puzzlement, "That's what I still can't figure out. What commonality brings you two together into the same category? If I did my research correctly, you were a tamer, while Katou practically became D-Reaper's life force for a while."

            Her expression changed, and for a moment, it looked as if she was looking down on him for being an incompetent slob. "If you did do your research correctly, and _thoroughly_, you would know that before she became part of D-Reaper, she was a tamer as well; a tamer who went through many painful experiences in the course of her life which climaxed in the death of her partner and culminated with her becoming the power source of some freak program."

            "I see…" Hiroshi rubbed his chin, rustling through the fine hairs of his growing unshaven beard. He was 26, in the prime of his age and intelligence, and here he was being mocked by this… this underage twit who thought she was so good at what she did. Give her a Junior Agent to handle and she'd probably crack in, give or take, two weeks, maybe even less. "And who can you recommend to join the fight?"

            "I think I have just the one in mind…"

School Grounds, Iyamoto High School, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Thursday, 1213 hours, Local Time…

            Takato Matsuki sighed. High School life was… boring, compared to his Junior High and elementary… especially to his elementary. Without all that adventure going on, life was as mundane as the word mundane itself. The last thing he needed to do was to snore off the last… he checked his watch… 45 or so minutes of this lunch break. He had already finished the single _ordinary_ sandwich that his mother had made him. _No more Guilmon rolls to go around, I guess_. He thought.

            Strangely enough, the first week after the D-Reaper's defeat was the strangest yet. Although not actually having any proof whatsoever, Rika had allegedly died in a car crash or something like that. Taxi fell off a bridge because of stormy weather and right into the river. Police managed to salvage both the car and the bodies of its two occupants, namely Rika, and the driver. Shortly after that, Ryo's family moved to the United States to get him 'a better education'.

            As for Henry… well what about him? The only thing that kept him going was the thought that one day he'd see Terriermon again. After all, why wouldn't he think that if he'd been told about the Digi-gate that still remained open in Guilmon's former hideout. At least they were classmates now, unlike Kazu and Kenta who eventually went their own ways to different schools… or Suzie who was still finishing the 5th Grade.

Then there was that part-time job Jeri got around some three years back at some bank called Nakamura Crediting or something like that. Speaking of which, Jeri apparently hadn't remembered that it was a Thursday today, and probably took an early weekend or something like that; i.e. she was absent. Boy was Mister Toroyama going to kill her tomorrow. He could almost see it now, Jeri sulking in her seat with a burning red-hot Mister Toroyama towering above her, pointing in the direction of the detention office while barking out her sentence. _"That'll be twelve hours detention for you, Little Miss I'm-too-busy-with-my-job-at-the-bank-to-go-to-school-on-Thursday!"_ the words swam about in the alphabet soup of weird ideas recently concocted by his mind and kind of lingered as he shook his head.

            A tap on his shoulder kicked him out of his grim fantasy. _Probably Henry wanting to ask if we could hang out later or something_, he thought as he turned to see who it was. Whoever he was, though, he certainly wasn't any Henry he knew. He was a rather short, stocky, bearded man in a black business suit, tinted thin-wire framed sunglasses shielding his eyes along with a coiled white wire trailing from the inside of his suit to the inside of his right ear by the side of his face. Takato had seen that outfit somewhere before… what was that movie called? The Matrix? They were the 'bad guys' or agents. Of course that wasn't possible in real life, was it? Then again, so were Digimon until he met Guilmon and the others. The only offset for his 'agentness' was that he was currently chewing on a familiar looking piece of bread… a Guilmon roll to be exact. "Good day, Mister Matsuki. How would you like to work for your government?"

            "Hey, who are you? And how'd you know my name?" Those two questions were frequently asked by people who fall into the Twilight Zone when they meet with mysterious men in black. Was he falling into the Twilight Zone? Of course, as far as Takato could recall, he had fallen into the Twilight Zone when he first met Guilmon.

            "My name is Taberuni Pan, and I work for the government," the stocky man answered, taking a bite out of the 'ear' of the roll, "And in my kind of job, Mister Matsuki, you're required to know everything about everything." Besides resembling an agent from The Matrix, Takato also thought that he looked like that Korean assassin from the first Austin Powers movie who's main weapon was a deadly… leather shoe.

            "Okay, so what do you want from me?" better be cautious about what to say. Who knew what these men in black did for a living?

            "Like I said earlier, Mister Matsuki, how would you like to work for your government?" at this he bit the chin off. "The pay isn't that much, but I assure you that you'll get the best out of life."

            "Well… I don't know." The prospects were uncertain, and this man could just be bluffing. Then there was the nagging feeling that if translated into audio would sound something like what those freaky oracles say about destiny or fate and crap like that. It was either that, or his imagination was just plain going hyperactive and this man standing in front of him inviting him to work for the government was part of some weird fantasy.

            "I see that we're having difficulty deciding." Pan tossed the last bit of the roll into his wide-open mouth fished his inside-suit pocket for something. Takato could see the bulge of his hand rummaging around within the cloth, stop at one point, and apparently grasp something. The fat man brought out a business card and handed it over. "Once you make the choice, come over to this address after school." He turned to leave, "One more thing: if you do decide to go, talk to the guard at the elevator hall and tell him who you are."

            Takato glanced at the card. It read:

Nikamura Crediting, 2417 Yannagi Avenue, Shinjuku District, Tokyo

Services Offered: Loans, Crediting, Savings, Withdrawal, Investments, etc.

            'A happy life is thought to be one of excellence, and an excellent life consists

            of financial stability. We are just one of the many foundations for such a life.'

            Surprised at the nature of the card, he turned to question the man again, but as with most mysterious men in black, by the time Takato managed to get his eyes back to where he was supposed to be standing, he was gone. _Nikamura Crediting, huh?_ He thought as his eyebrow rose in curiosity. _I wonder…nah!_ He checked his watch again, "Twelve thirty five. Lot's of time to think about this, but in the meantime, I think it's time to finish my History assignment early." The former Tamer stood up and left the table.

To be continued…

AN: Yes, I know. It was a little short and a little hanging, but what can I say? It's just a feeler. Hope you like what I did. I also humbly apologize if I didn't satisfy, I don't know why, I guess I'm just an amateur after all. So, here we are… the last leg of my note: please review this fic! Thanks loads!


	2. CHAPTER 2

AN: Wow, I finally managed to finish the first chapter to get started with this. Just so you know, Taberuni Pan, if I remember my Japanese correctly, literally means 'to eat bread'. I just figured that a black suit guy with an appetite for Guilmon rolls sounded intriguing. This segment is mostly going to be filled with dialogue, although there will be some action. Anyways, after the long wait, here we are: The second chapter! One more thing: can somebody correct me about Kotemon's statistics? I really don't know what he is simply because I don't own a single Digi Battle Card and the fact that DMW 3 doesn't identify Kotemon at all except that h comes with the balanced pack.

Disclaimer would be in the first chapter. I know, I'm a lazy guy.

Introductions and Retributions 

Director's Office, Agency Headquarters Main Compound, Washington D.C.

Thursday, 0125 hours, Local Time (Washington's Time Zone is 14 hours behind that of Tokyo)…

            Deputy Director Marc Rolling stomped into his boss' dark office, noting the mysterious man who stood behind the Director, hidden in the shadows. "Him again?"

            Director Jacob Marlon ignored his subordinate's comment about the 'Shadow Man' and, elbows on the desk, entwined his fingers into each other. The reason that the person standing behind him was called 'Shadow Man', was mainly because of two things: One, nobody knew who he really was, and Two, obviously because his favorite spot in the Director's Office always shrouded his upper body from view. "So, what do you have to say?"

            "We have just confirmed Kaira's credibility," the black American replied, and added, "Akiyama's report was clear enough."

            "I see…" Marlon's eyebrows creased over his wire-framed sunglasses. What had just occurred 16 hours ago was jeopardizing the Agency's goal at the moment. He was sure that the Shadow Man was going to say something, and waited for it. The face concealed in the darkness remained quiet. "So you're telling me that Network Security _had_ managed to get a copy of Project: Toto-Con."

            "Well, yes…" Rolling managed to stutter, "And no."

            "What the hell are you talking about? Clarify that."

            "Well, sir, Eye-Net did manage to confirm a download of all our files concerning Project: Toto-Con from the Pacific Branch's mainframe terminal. The problem is that we don't know what happened to the infiltrator after she fell off the roof."

            "She?" Marlon's eyebrow cocked upward in surprisingly similar fashion to that of Hugo Weaving.

            "Yes sir. A girl of at least 17." Rolling stated matter-of-factly, "Apparently, Akiyama knew her."

            "So you're telling me that Network Security now recruits juvenile crack heads to do their dirty work for them?"

            "Not just juveniles, sir. Tamers, and Former tamers. Our mole reports that Network Security has at least three operatives who used to have Digimon Partners in each of their branches." Why were they doing such things? What did the executive twelve have on their twisted minds that had them recruiting Tamers? What were the advantages? What was the point?

            "Tamers and Ex-Tamers, huh? Network Security must think that they can utilize the residue power born by these people and their connections with the Digital World—" The Director cut himself off in mid sentence, "Wasn't Agent Akiyama a Tamer too? What did the tests make out?"

            "Nothing, sir. Besides his background as a Tamer, Ryo Akiyama is completely normal."

            "Uh huh… well then forget about that topic. As of now, the entire Agency is on code red. In other words, we're assuming that Network Security has gotten their hands on that copy of Project: Toto-Con. Which is exactly why I want its development schedule shortened to a fourth of its original duration."

            "Did… did I just get that right?" Rolling's expression became that of surprise, "You want the schedule for Project: Toto-Con shortened by that degree?"

            "Yes. That is also why I want two additional development teams assigned to this. By this time after three months, I want Project: Toto-Con to be tested and ready for deployment. Is that clear?"

            "I understand," with that, the Deputy Director of the Agency left the room, leaving Marlon alone with the Shadow Man to discuss the matters at hand.

            Finally, the man whose face was hidden from sight parted his lips, an extremely nasal voice coming forth, "Kaira is the worst director you could probably find on this planet, you know that? Launching a counterattack would only provoke Network Security to bring the entirety of its weight down on us. It's like starting a war with them."

            "Don't worry," Marlon replied smoothly, "I know how Kaira thinks. He has two options: either to launch a full scale attack or to simply infiltrate its networks and eliminate every last trace of Project: Toto-Con from their server…" he paused shortly, taking in the gravity of the situation. Which choice was Kaira going with? He knew from experience that he was obviously opting for the former. "If he's going through with it," he mumbled to himself, "He'd have to use at least a couple of Knight Strike Teams."

            Just as the name implied, Knight Strike Teams were groups of 10 of the Agency's most elite field operatives, armed for a tooth and nail encounter with the most advanced portable arms that money could buy, and armored from head to toe literally, in ABSA (Anti-Ballistics Steel Alloy) Suits. These, when put on, caused one to closely resemble a knight, but more importantly, it could deflect any impact force short of an RPG detonation. That of course included HE grenades and those cutesy 40mm ones launched from grenade guns. Each suit had its own life support system, and an oxygen supply to boot, that could last for days, a week at most, without being refilled. Taken together with the suits' extremely tensile plating, along with their advanced training and weaponry, the Knight Strike Teams' efficiency was incredibly high and was second only to somebody smart enough to understand that at the velocity at which they turned, chopper rotors could cleave an ABSA-clad person in two.

            "He is a fool, Marlon, imprudent and untimely. You know that by experience. Remember upgrading the D-Reaper into an invincible force that even Network Security couldn't handle? Well, by our labs' estimates, NS could've taken it down within a few hours time provided they were allowed to do so. We were lucky that the United Nations had them stand down during the entire crisis. I get the unshakable feeling that somehow he is going to be the death of us all… the death of The Agency. And you do, of course, understand the implications of this…"

            "Believe me, I am fully aware," Marlon answered in a somewhat disgruntled disposition, "In any case, if he does launch that counterattack, be it ending in success or in disaster, I'll personally see to it that it will be the _last_ operation that he'd organize in this agency. You can count on that."

            "Good."

            Another thought came to mind, one that housed significance to him, "Akiyama is the only Tamer we have under us, while Network Security has at least thirty-six! What do you want to do?"

             "It's time we put our own experimental Digital Life Form to the test. Whilst most of Network Security's Tamers no longer have their partners, we can reacquaint Akiyama to the meaning of Partnership. I suggest that you revive Project: Mechmon and introduce it to its new owner." At this, he chuckled.

            "Uh-huh. And why so?"

            "If you should remember, Akiyama personally requested us to recover his Monodramon from the network," the Shadow Man paused, a tense aura of immense danger and threat building up, "And in essence, we did. After which we integrated its Digi-Core into the empty shell that was Project: Mechmon. We can therefore conclude that the ideal partner for Project: Mechmon is none other than Akiyama, since its soul itself belonged to his original partner. Think of it as a Digimon's reincarnation."

            "I see." Truth be told, Marlon was not really as in charge of The Agency as what most of his subordinates thought he was. He was merely a puppet director, a puppet whose puppeteer was none other than the mysterious Shadow Man.

            He picked up a glass of water that rested on Marlon's desk and downed all of its contents.

            "I really hate it when you do that."

            "Who wanted your opinion?" the dark figure pulled a handkerchief from his unseen left breast pocket and wiped his mouth. "Anything else to discuss before I leave? I have an appointment at the United Nations in eight hours you see, and I haven't gotten that much sleep yet."

            "Network Security is in control of certain programs that it uses to safeguard the Virgin OS against anything that might bypass its hundreds of firewalls. What are they?"

Once again, the man reached into his breast pocket and drew out a small round object, which he placed in his mouth and chewed. Marlon could only assume that it was a gumball, "The Guardian Algorithm is their premier Network Monitoring program. Its composing code was discovered by Franck Schwartz, an NS-3 programmer, around the same time of the abandonment of Project: AL and was further developed by Network Security R&D teams around the world. Now, if it wasn't for D-Reaper, which you recall, Mister Marlon, destroyed over half of the network in its time, they would have at least three million of these bastards running around the internet and shooting down any threat to their creators right now. Thankfully, their number has greatly dwindled due to D-Reaper's occupation and is, at maximum, 6000… barely enough to guard Network Security's wide borders. Plus the fact that some of these aging programs go renegade every now and then, requiring them to pull the plugs on them one at a time. Then again, Project: Toto-Con, upon its completion, is supposed to help us bypass all of these problems and gain direct control of the situation." He spat the wad of gum into the desk-side trash bin and headed out for the office's rear door, which was also obscured from view because of the shadows, "Now if you'll excuse me, Mister Marlon, I have an important meeting to attend."

            The door shut, leaving Marlon alone in the dark to think it over for himself. "Guardian Algorithm… sounds like something out of a cheap sci-fi novel." He punched the intercom, "Miss Slovack, I'll be going home now."

            An eerily cheerful female voice came through in reply, "Of course, Mister Marlon. Anything I can bring you before you leave?"

            "Uh. No thanks." The Director of the Agency stood up, went for his coat on the rack, and, putting it on, closed the door behind him.

Lobby, Nikamura Crediting, Shinjuku District, Tokyo

Thursday, 1538 hours, Local Time…

            Takato Matsuki sat on one of the large bank's waiting benches, unsure of what to do. To his left was an old lady in an antiquated purple and pink dress set, hat included, who sat with a leash in her hand, her black Scottish terrier sniffing around the former tamer's feet. To his right sat the kind of person you expected to see at home at a corporate office's desk: a young man in a business suit with an attaché case at his feet, chatting on a modernly modeled cell phone to someone named Nobura about the current prices of his stocks and bonds. The continuous babbling and snuffling was beginning to make him feel awkwardly out of place.

            Finally, the lady stood up and, supporting herself with an oak cane, slowly walked over to the nearest counter, terrier following with its tongue stuck out. At least one distraction was gone. Takato was having a hard time remembering the other instructions that fat, bread eating man in black gave him. All he could remember clearly was that he was told to come to this bank should he decide to work for the government. His gaze fell upon the uniformed guard at the mouth to the elevator hall that was reading the latest tabloid. That was when the man's voice echoed through his mind, _"If you do decide to go, talk to the guard at the elevator hall and tell him who you are."_

            He rose from the bench with his backpack slung over his right shoulder, the businessman still chattering on behind him, walked over to the guard, and, with a degree of uncertainty, spoke, "Uh, hi. I'm Takato Matsuki, and—"

            He needn't say anymore, for the guard, not bothering to look up from his reading material, cut him off in mid-sentence, "You're late. Yamamoto has been waiting for you. Take elevator six to the thirteenth floor."

            "Wait… Yamamoto?" his eyebrow rose in confusion, "I thought it was—"

            "Pan?" the guard once again interrupted him, eyes still glued to his informative sheets, "Oh, no, he's on leave. Yamamoto was the one who originally had the idea to call you here. He merely had Pan do an errand for him since your school was on the route to his flat. Now take elevator six to the thirteenth floor."

            "Uh. Thanks." Takato glanced through the elevator hall, each one numbered accordingly. Upon reaching the elevator labeled six, what he saw caused him to turn back to the guard and ask him, but once more was stopped in his tracks.

            "Don't mind the 'Out of Order' sign. It's just to keep morons from getting into the 'wrong' elevator." It was like the guard knew what he thought before he thought it. Was he psychic? Or was it because his thinking was too obvious? Whatever the reason, the guard certainly gave great advice.

            "Wrong elevator?"

            The guard's temper reaching its boiling point was clearly displayed by the manner with which he rolled his newspaper and practically screamed into Takato's face, not caring whether he made a scene or not, "It's the only elevator that goes up to floors thirteen to twenty. Now stop asking stupid questions and go, go, go!"

            "Alright! Alright!" the former tamer yelled back, "I got it already! Jeez." He turned away and walked to the only elevator in the hall, the sign 'Out of Order' hanging just above the doors. Pushing the elevator call key, Takato wondered what awaited him on the thirteenth floor after he took a trip on an elevator that was allegedly out of order. He also wondered what all this secrecy was for.

Being so deep in thought, he practically jumped backward as the elevator doors parted, revealing a neatly dressed young man in black, tinted wire-framed sunglasses concealing his eyes from view, nicely combed brown hair topping his head. "Good afternoon, Mister Matsuki. So glad you could make it. For a moment there, I was worried that you weren't coming at all!"

            "Um… are you… Yamamoto?" Takato asked as he cautiously stepped inside and stood beside the man, carefully looking him over as if to get an overview picture.

            The elevator's doors shut; boxing the two men in together as it began its arduous journey, thirteen stories up, "Yep, that's me. Special Agent Hiroshi Yamamoto. I work for the government."

            "Uh, which branch of the government?" the first and most likely candidate sprang into his mind, "Hypnos?"

            "Oh, no! Of course not!" Yamamoto blurted out casually, waving his hands in a gesture of renouncement, "I'm with the department that monitors and polices all activity within the Digital World, including that of Digimon. We've been around _long_ before Hypnos."

            "How long exactly?" asked the gold-brown-haired adolescent.

            "You want an exact figure?" The agent took out a Marlboro from his pocket, along with a Zippo, and placing the tip into his mouth, lighted it, releasing the first puff of smoke upon exhaling orally as he placed the silver lighter back into its place.

            Takato, noticing the sign 'No Smoking', spoke up, "E… excuse me. Mister Yamamoto? Shouldn't you be refraining from smoking in the elevator?" He always wondered about what happened to government workers who didn't obey the rules.

            "What?" that was when he also noticed the 'No Smoking' sign. "Oh…" Yamamoto calmly grasped the stick of tobacco with his right index and middle fingers, and flung it out of his mouth onto the floor, where he extinguished its embers with a stomp and a twist from the sole of his finely polished leather shoe. "Now where was I?" he took a tube of breath freshener from his breast pocket and, as with most people who have breath freshener, sprayed a minute amount into his mouth. "Oh, yeah, an exact figure. Before I do tell you, though… any last minute guesses?"

            "Sorry. I'm stumped."

            "June 26th, 1945. Can you tell me of any important historical event that happened on this date, kid? I mean, besides it being the date we were founded?"

            "Haven't got a clue," the tamer modestly admitted, "I suck at history. Got a very low average there, if you ask me." Why else would he try to complete his history assignment during lunchtime?

            "Try the signing of the UN Charter." Yamamoto casually replied.

            "No kidding!?" what mysterious forces ran the universe and led to such strange coincidences? Why did they favor such things? Takato could only guess.

            "Yep. June 26th, 1945, the exact same day that the UN charter was signed, and so were we founded. Truth be told, Mister Matsuki, it was the UN that started us. We have twelve branches in six continents, two in each. All of them are equal in authority, and are governed by a ruling panel consisting of the branches' directors: The Executive Twelve."

            "Sounds big. Are… you funded by the UN too?" by this time, the elevator was almost past the 12th floor, very close to its destination.

            "Yeah, more or less." The sound of a bell rang out, followed by the parting of the doors, revealing a lobby as busy as the one on the ground floor. The only difference was that most of the people here wore black… for obvious reasons. Stepping out of the cramped space and offering the young man a hand, Yamamoto said the first formal greeting he had for some time now, "Welcome to NS-8, Mister Matsuki."

Director's Office, 14th Floor - NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Thursday, 1545 hours, Local Time…

            NS-8 Director Akira Sakamori reclined into his chair, calmly addressing the man on the other side of the connection. Sakamori was, to put it simply, getting old. At his age of 61, his graying hairline had receded substantially, giving the effect that his forehead was larger than it really was. The same went for the wrinkles on his face that made him appear more fragile than he really was. A gruff beard filled up the space on his chin, giving the impression that he hadn't shaved in a while. Tired eyes gazed at the monitor of his personal terminal, ignoring the webcam that spied at his figure from atop, transmitting his very face to the man he was talking to. "I don't blame you for leaving NS-8, Yamaki. And I'm also very sorry for what happened to Flamedramon, but know this: I am not responsible for his death. It was your decision to use that program card even with a 6 percent chance of succeeding."

            "Don't talk to me as if you're still my handler, old man." Yamaki curtly replied, "Or are you suffering from a midlife crisis now?" In the past five years, Yamaki's general appearance didn't change at all, except for a few minor differences such as the fact that his hair was cut shorter than before. "Even after all this time you still consider what happened to Flamedramon as death. You of all people should know that Digimon are nothing but computer programs!"

            "My dear Yamaki," NS-8's director spoke with a tinge of what could be considered as pity, "If you must know, during the fifteen years since you left us, we have learned enough about Digimon to be able to conclude that they are indeed living creatures. The most common traits of a living creature are both present in Digimon, namely the ability to procreate, and the possession of a DNA chain. Now you might say that this is all a load of bull, and that what we consider as a Digimon's DNA chain is nothing but a string of data. But before you do, consider this: real world creatures' DNA chains are, simply put, nothing but a chain of acids and bases, strings of data that are meant to show their traits…" his voice trailed off as a somber expression materialized on his face. "You know, now that I think of it, it looks like the only reason you refuse to believe what is undoubtedly true is that if you do acknowledge it, you will also be admitting that it is you who are responsible for Flamedramon's death. In a sense, you killed your own partner."

That was the last straw… "DAMMIT, SAKAMORI! Why don't you just shut up and let me talk for once!?" the chief of Hypnos Pacific exploded, his breathing heavy and erratic. "I didn't call you up to get insulted. I called you because my superiors want to ask you an important question."

            "What?" Sakamori asked quizzically.

            "My superiors know that you've sent someone to infiltrate The Agency's network last night to retrieve information about a so-called Project: Toto-Con, and they want to know what's going on. What is Project: Toto-Con and what is it capable of doing?"

            "Well…"

            "Well what?" Yamaki's patience was already worn out, and was far from recovery.

            "We don't know." Sakamori answered bluntly, "Our operative was eliminated before she could get out of the building. She was practically shot off the roof. We're lucky even to have been able to recover the body, for crying out loud! Funeral services will be held next week. Would you care to attend?"

            "Why should I?"

            "Because, Yamaki, our late operative was a very close friend of one of your acquaintances." The aging man took a sip from a nearby cup of coffee on his desk. "And that acquaintance of yours, is Takato Matsuki, a former tamer."

            Yamaki remained silent…

            "Well, if there's nothing more we have to discuss, I assume that you're going to adjourn this meeting…" the government officer calmly stated, "Unless of course, there's anything else you have to say, that is."

            "Well, no." Hypnos' leader bowed his head briefly, a sign of respect, as he cut the link, ending the conversation.

            Sakamori placed his elbows on the desk, fingers knotting in a gesture of worry… worry for Yamaki. Fifteen years ago he had so much potential to go the distance. If only he hadn't used that modify card, then Flamedramon would've lived. If only he had taken his advice. If only… if only… _Why didn't you listen, Yamaki? You could've done so much more for the good of the network… of the human race._

            A digitized female voice disturbed his plane of thought, "Mister Sakamori, Agent Yamamoto is waiting outside your office with an unidentified person. Apparently, he wants to speak to you about something."

            "I don't need a sentient supercomputer to tell me that, but thanks anyway, Virgin," he answered nonchalantly, "Let them in." The office's transparent door slid open of its own free will; to the will of the Virtual Digital Nexus—Virgin—rather, and in stepped two figures. The taller of the two, a young man in his mid-twenties, had combed copper hair, a black suit, and much better grooming than the shorter one, a teenager with a rather unattended dirt blonde mane and reddish eyes dressed in a somewhat loose light blue shirt, khaki pants, and green/white rubber shoes, a backpack slung over his right shoulder. The director eyed the latter more carefully, searching for that one thing that confirmed his guess of identity… the one thing that wasn't there… a pair of yellow goggles, although, even without, the outfit alone was enough to confirm his suspicions.  _Well, well, well… speak of the devil. Nonaka does have a nick for this guy… unless of course she can't risk endangering the other in our line of work. I'll have to remember to keep surveillance on both of them._

            "Mister Sakamori," Yamamoto started, "I would like to introduce you to our new recruit, and my new partner, mister—"

            "Takato Matsuki," Sakamori cut him off, "I've heard very much about you. How does it feel to become one with your partner to create an extremely powerful Digimon capable of defeating even one of the Four Sovereigns? Not to mention defeating that goddamned D-Reaper we created long ago?"

            Takato's eyes widened in surprise, "YOU created the D-Reaper!?"

            "Well, yes," the director sounded very calm indeed and didn't seem to worry at all, "It was in the early days of the network, around the time when information was beginning to crowd it too much—obsolete information if you will. You are of course aware of what this organization's directives are."

            "Well, I was told that you were founded by the United Nations to safeguard the network," the tamer didn't see the connection though, between the network's safety and creating something that almost destroyed both worlds, "But I don't see how the D-Reaper… I mean it almost destroyed the Real World as well as the Digital!"

            "That's the thing. We were afraid that too much information would overload the network's still fragile bandwidth causing it to crash, so, utilizing the latest technology at the time, we created a program that deleted all network roaming data chains inferior to it." Sakamori paused as if to give time for the youth to absorb what he had just said, "However, we did experience a problem, namely, upon completing its specified task of deleting fifty percent of the net's contents, it did not stop and consumed another twenty-five before we could deactivate it. You have to understand of course, that since we did not possess the technology to delete it, the only thing we were able to do was to put it on hibernation in the deepest portion of the network possible."

            "Then what caused it to reawaken?" the young boy said this with a hint of anger in his voice. Of course, who wouldn't be angry at the person who's creation almost caused the apocalypse as one would know it?

            "We don't know." He answered blankly, "The rest of Network Security believes that Digital Evolution triggered its competitive system and thus caused it to evolve along with them, but I have a hunch that someone was behind all of it."

            "What do you mean?"

            This time it was Yamamoto's turn to speak, "Mister Sakamori believes that the one responsible for the D-Reaper's revival is a mysterious organization known only as The Agency, which we've been monitoring for the past twenty-five years, whose motives up to this time are still unknown. Very little is known about it by any intelligence organization at this point, and even the UN is starting to worry. They are also into thinking that the reason we don't find out anything about it is because it probably has moles in _every_ single intelligence and security organization on the face of the earth, including our own. We don't know where it started, we don't know how long its been in operation, we don't know how big it is, but one thing's for sure, if it has any objectives, none of them can be good. We can tell, however, that one of their earlier exploits was convincing John Wilkes Booth to murder US President Abraham Lincoln. Beyond that is the great beyond and we can't see through it."

            "That's how old they are? Unbelievable."

            "We have reason to believe that they are _much_ older." Sakamori added, "This is the very Agency that your friend, Jeri Katou, gave her life to help stall from its ultimate goal." He noticed the slight head shake that Yamamoto did, signaling that he hadn't told Takato the bad news yet. He was, however, a little too late.

            "W… what do you mean?" Takato felt butterflies begin to hatch within his stomach. _I didn't hear that right_, he kept telling himself, _I didn't_. "Jeri? But didn't she work at a bank?"

            "When you saw this building from the outside for the first time, Mister Matsuki," NS-8's director stated, "What did it look like to you?"

            That was when it hit him. The building _was _a bank… probably a front at the most, but it certainly looked like a genuine bank. And he did assume that Jeri didn't go to school today _because_ of the bank. And it looked like he was right.

            "We want you to help finish what she helped start, Mister Matsuki. We need you to help us fight the good fight, to protect those missing partners of yours until we get a chance to locate them, to help protect those still unborn Digimon that might someday become other children's partners. This isn't a matter of duty, Mister Matsuki. This is a mater of ethics. We _need_ you to join us."

            "I… I'm sorry…" Takato managed to stutter, "I… I think I'm going to need time to think about this. Please excuse me…" with a slight bow in gesture of respect, he turned around and went for the door, which slid open and close with his passing.

            Yamamoto looked at his supervisor and raised an eyebrow as if asking, "Should I go after him, or what?"

            Sakamori, accustomed to facial talk done by his subordinate, answered him like he was making some sort of Delphic Oracle's prediction, "No. Let him go. He'll come back, I'm sure of it… out of his own free will."

East Sector, Level 3, Digital World

Thursday, 1606 hours, Shinjuku-Tokyo Time…

            Green. That would be the first thought to come to mind when one saw the place. It was filled with trees that stretched out into horizons of all directions. Although the sight of a black gargantuan monster that rampaged in a clearing of this usually peaceful area of the network did screw up the pre-conceived and pre-thought idea of having a picnic here with your family and Digimon partner while you counted the seconds just for entertainment as your partner ate everything your mother would offer him or her.

'SkullMammothmon, Vaccine Type Ghost Digimon at Mega Level. It's technique is Spiral Bone Crusher.' These statistics were being projected into a hologram by Special Agent Rika Nonaka's wrist-strapped gadget as she loaded her high caliber rifle in preparation of what was to come. She sat on the highest branch belonging to one of the more altitude-gifted trees in the area, reading the status report given by her device. Its current state? Program 003: Digivice/D-Arc program. All of Network Security's operatives had one of these: MUDs or Multiple Utility Devices. The original version had five functions. The latest had several thousand. She, however, preferred the one with just 10.

Namely a grappling gun with a range of up to 150 meters, for climbing up those steep cliffs, a high-powered flashlight, for night ops, Digivice/D-Arc for Wild One identification (although she'd had enough experience with Digi-Battle Cards to be able to identify them of her own accord). Her Digivice program had a card reader attached, and was exclusive to Tamer operatives only. It was also equipped with a DSP Launcher, Data Cutter, Beam shield, and four other miscellaneous functions that she didn't even bother to check. She wondered how Yamamoto was going to handle that goggle-head once he found out about Jeri.

 _Girl_, she thought to herself, _Whatever his reaction would be, it can't be good at all._ She peered through the rifle's scope, taking good aim of the behemoth's left eye, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, came the roar of a voice, "HOT HEAD!" A second at most had elapsed since this was uttered when a small creature dressed in what appeared to be a Kendo training outfit armed with what looked like a flaming Bokken Kendo Sword fell out of what she would consider a very high place and thwacked the beast on the head, irritating it.

            The mammoth-impersonating data chunk thrashed at the creature with its trunk, most probably a foolish Digimon greedy for loadable data going desperate. Impmon was like that once. That was when they were pitted against that large horse-like deva. Of course, that mattered no longer. The point was, greedy or not, this guy was pretty good, since he had avoided the swing with relative ease. She aimed the Arc in its direction, the ensuing reaction informing her of its identity, "Kotemon," she mumbled as the hologram came into view, "Data Type Reptile Digimon at Rookie Level. It's technique is Hot Head." She paused at the revelation, "Heard that the only way one of these guys' full potential could be achieved was when he had a partner… does that mean—"

            Her unspoken question was answered just as quickly when a young somebody, around the age of being prepubescent, stepped out of the foliage and into the clearing, about 30 or so feet away from the dueling duo. She was sure she had seen that person somewhere before but just couldn't place her finger on it. The NS-8 operative couldn't tell the person's gender mainly of two reasons: Number one: If he were a boy, then he was probably very lazy to get a haircut since his lavender hair that matched Rika's eyes, tied up in a ponytail, went down his back, stopping just a few inches short of his waist. This do was paired with amber optics that made him look like her complete reciprocal. She also figured that he had a soft, gentle personality, opposite to that of hers.

            Number two: If she were a girl, then she had a very masculine sense of fashion, since she was wearing an outdoor suit similar to that which Ryo had worn in the Digital world, except that it was darker and less dull than his. A purple scarf dangled around her neck, waving in the wind as she stared at the fighting, eyes focused on Kotemon's every move. Strapped to her right wrist was an MUD that Rika had deduced, from its 'newer' look, to be of a more advanced model compared to hers.

            She still had doubts about the person's sexuality until finally a voice came forth from 'his' (Rika assumed the person to be male) mouth. Its pitch was still light due to the fact that 'he' hadn't gone through puberty yet, but it was definitely male, "Hit the weak points, Kotemon!"

            The small bamboo sword-wielding creature called back irately, "It doesn't have any weak points!"

            "Then we'll just have to make some," he mumbled to himself. "Digivice Program: Activate," he said, placing his MUD-clad wrist in front of himself. The tool immediately phase-shifted into the all too familiar form of a D-Arc, the digitized voice acknowledging the said transformation. He smirked the way a killer did when he had his victim huddled into a corner, cowering as he prepared to make the brutal murder. He flicked open a pack on his belt with his left hand, probably for Digi-Battle Cards, Rika had guessed, and fished out what was unmistakably a blue card that triggered the Matrix Evolution process.

            _He's never going to beat a Mega Level opponent with that!_ She leaped off the branch, rifle slung over her shoulder, all the way down to the ground at least a dozen feet below and walked over to the clearing stopping just beside him. It was too late for her to stop him from using the card though.

Placing the Arc in a position where the card reader was exposed to oncoming card, "Digimodify!" he cried out as he slid the card through the reader, "Matrix Evolution! Activate!"

            MATRIX EVOLUTION…

            "Kotemon Matrix Digivolve to…" At that precise moment, time slowed down as a white mesh of pure information, data figures, slowly began to wrap around the little swordsman in elliptic bands, encasing it within an egg-shaped chamber of digital evolution. Its details and colors were ripped off little by little, leaving behind a white-lined wire frame that held the general shape of the original, as new detailed portions attached themselves to it. When that long moment was finally over, what stood in the place of the dwarf sword-armed Digimon was a large, pale-skinned one, somewhat resembling a catfish with a sword for a mustache, its arms ending in scythe-like appendages. It had a long blue mane that went down its back complemented by a matching tail. "Kyukimon!"

            Her curiosity piqued once again, Rika had her Digivice identify the creature that called itself Kyukimon, 'Kyukimon, Data Type Reptile Digimon at Ultimate Level. Its technique is Blade Twister.' _The guy's exotic choice for a partner proves that he's some kind of hotshot._ She decided to just watch the situation for the time being, seeing as there was no point in helping a guy who dressed like he didn't want any help. Besides, it looked like he was so engrossed with the fight that he probably didn't even know she was standing right there beside him.

            It moved at unholy speeds, seemingly almost teleporting from 30 feet away right to the raging beast's side and slashing the bone armor with one of its scythe-like arms… that hardly did any good though since lab tests proved that Skull Mammothmon's bony hide could deflect a 150mm anti-tank round and then some. It disappeared as it retreated, materializing in what was its original position only a moment before. This manner of fighting reminded her of Renamon, especially the incredible agility.

            "It's not working, Kai!" Kyukimon shouted at its tamer as it bolted to attack again, this time managing to nick the portion around its adversary's eye, which irritated it even more.

            The boy, referred to by his partner as Kai, flicked his deck open again, fishing out a card Rika hadn't seen in her entire life as she stared at him with an 'I told you so' look on her face even though she did _not_ exactly tell him. This he either ignored, or was completely unaware of as he slid the card through his Arc's reader, "Digimodify! Activate NS Edition Program Card: GOLIATH!"

            She'd never heard of an NS Edition Program Card before, although she was by this time sure as to what N and S stood for. She watched the boy's partner, and realized that its size was increasing to the point that it was at least three times as large as it originally was. It was still, however, still small compared to the titan that was Skull Mammothmon. "Program Card: Goliath is exclusive only to Network Security Operatives," she wasn't sure if he was talking to her or if he was just mumbling to himself. "Triples all of your partner's statistics, tripling its size as a sign that it works. Side effect present triples their instinct's intensity, thus heightening their desire to inflict pain on their opponents, for the duration of the program of course."

            Although it was hard to make out, she was sure that she saw a maniacal smile on Kyukimon's face as it kneed the massive beast by the abdomen, breaking through its armor and causing it to howl in pain. It wasn't finished yet, however, for as the monstrosity attempted to swing its trunk as a means of self-defense, it dodged to one side and retaliated a split-second later as it cleaved off a part well in excess of half its length. "Finish him, Kyukimon."

            "You kidding me!?" his partner retorted, "I'm having so much fun!"

            The look on the boy's face when he heard that told Rika everything she needed to know. He was serious, and Kyukimon was dead wrong if he thought that he could make this guy laugh, "Finish him _now_, Kyukimon, or else you don't want to know what I have in store for you."

            The Digimon knew that his partner wasn't kidding, and of course, let its common sense give its instinct a good kick in the rear with a boot. "Alright, already! Sheesh!" it spread its arms wide, as if to embrace someone and focused its awareness solely on the elephantine figure that writhed on the ground with a broken ribcage and decapitated trunk. Slowly it converted the energy from its adrenaline into the will to succeed, pushing reality to the limit as it swiftly brought its scythed arms together, causing a powerful hurricane that brought dozens of crescent blades flashing around within it. "BLADE TWISTER!" the powerful gales of the tornado flung the many cutting edges at Kyukimon's target, neatly slicing through several critical portions of its body the way a shopping channel knife would just glide through a block of cheese with zero resistance. Upon the force's subsiding, the enemy burst into tiny fragments of data, which the catfish like Digimon immediately absorbed.

The battle was over and it had begun reverting to its Rookie form when Rika Nonaka realized just who her mysteriously reciprocated boy was, "I know you! You're Kai Takamiya, second runner up of the National Championship! You supposedly disappeared three years ago!" she took the time that he turned to face her to get some air. "You were only seven years old back then when we fought…"

            "It's truly a great pleasure and honor to be remembered by the legendary Digimon Ice Queen," he answered with a sense of sarcasm and humor.

            "That's Digimon Queen to you, buster." The older tamer corrected. "Is this where you've been all this time? Running around the Digital World all day long and doing errands for Network Security?"

            "I don't exactly work for Network Security," he flicked another belt pouch open, fished out a couple of gumballs, and, offering one to Rika, which she politely declined, popped the other into his mouth, "I'm a freelance operative. Been going in and out of Digi-World using Digi-Gate synthesizer, MUD program number 17, for the past three years while staying in a rundown apartment with my buddy, Kotemon."

            "And to think I never see you at work." She said.

            "And I don't think you ever will either," the purple-haired boy replied, "I receive my orders via email from Sakamori and jump directly into the Digital World using my MUD's Digi-Gate synthesizer. No time for Virgin, you see. Too much hassle involved there."

            "Uh-huh…" her attention was focused on the growth-deprived Digimon that now sat on the ground, legs crossed, apparently deep into some kind of meditation.

            "Oh, yeah. This is my buddy, Kotemon. Kotemon, this is Rika Nonaka. You know, the first runner up for the Digi-Battle Card National Championship some time ago that I told you about? She's allegedly dead, but that's to keep the media from asking her for the reason she works at a bank."

            "Greetings…" it said in an almost subconscious tone, "I sense that something is missing in your life. Do you have a partner?"

            "Yeah, I have one," she answered. _If I only knew where she was at this moment… Virgin told me that she had searched 18 000 of the nearly 100 000 Renamon population in this world and yet she's still nowhere to be seen…_ "I just don't know where she is…"

            "I see…" it opened its eyes and stood up, "I must say, it was nice meeting you, and I feel sorry that you cannot locate your partner." It whispered something to its tamer, who nodded as it did so.

            "Well," Kai started, "We really must be on our way. Nice meeting with you again, 'your majesty'." The two turned to leave and in another moment, disappeared into the thick foliage leaving Agent Rika Nonaka to log out and give her typewritten report on what had ensued.

Location Unknown

Time Unknown

            You open your eyes, confused. The last thing you remember was nothingness. To put it simply, you do not remember a thing and conclude that you came into existence only at this moment. Scanning the surrounding area, you can make out that wherever you are in, it must be some kind of long hallway, neither end visible, obscurity stretching out ad infinitum. There seemed to be no light, although you could see very clearly. "Standing around isn't gonna get me out of here," you say as you start to walk down in the direction that faced you upon your awakening.

            In the darkness you could make out distorted shapes that were frighteningly jagged, even monstrous, seemingly just waiting for you to allow yourself to be consumed by their horrible being. Judging from the wooden doors that lined your path on which were posted brass plaques with names that could not be read, you were in some kind of office building; an office building which at the moment, was your entire universe. You passed through the hallway, whistling a cheerful tune that your mother taught you when you were younger as you checked your watch, which seemed to be broken as well. Whoever she was, you assume that she must've been a very loving mother since, although you could not remember much about her, you could easily recall the tune that she taught you. _How am I going to get out of here? _You wonder as, out of pure unchecked boredom, you start knocking on the doors you passed.

            As you continue down the eerie corridor, your grip on your imagination's leash begins to loosen, and you start to see things in the darkness ahead that was so thick that you thought if you had a knife, you could cut a hole right through it. They were visions that you forgot as soon as you no longer saw them. Although you could recall that they were visions of your forgotten past, shown to you by your sub conscience just to taunt you about how you no longer remembered your friends, your family, your identity, and your life. That was when you realized that you didn't even know your name anymore. You merely referred to yourself as 'me' or 'I' whenever you thought about or said anything.

            It had only been a few minutes since you had begun to walk, but you could swear to God, whoever or whatever that was, that it seemed like almost an eternity since you started. The visions continued to emerge from the darkness, ranging from scenes that ended in a moment, to scenes that dragged on to at least give you a good idea of who you were before fading away and wiping it from your memory once again. Now you were beginning to hear sounds like those that went bump in the night and sounds that were similar to echoing voices.

There was this particular voice that didn't seem to leave you alone, even though every time the echo died out you would forget what it said. The texture remained in your mind, though, rough, somewhat babyish in its accent and pronunciation of words, and pretty much naïve. This voice that kept reoccurring, you thought, must be, or must've been a very important person in your forgotten past, refusing to be disowned by your memory.

            Your thoughts were disturbed by a chillingly familiar sound: a high-pitched scream coming from further down the hallway. How much farther you didn't know, but it was definitely close. Very close. The voice seemed very familiar, the thought of which drove an icy spear up your spine for the possibility that the owner was someone very dear to you and was in grave danger. Your slow, nearly crawling walk almost immediately became a rush in the voice's originating direction when the implications of that idea sank in.

            As with your past experience, the hallway didn't seem to end. Instead it continued to go on… and on… and on… Finally, you saw an end not far away, two figures standing near it. One was a young woman, average in height, russet hair going down to her shoulder, her back to the wall, an expression of pure terror practically bolted tight onto her pale face and golden eyes. The other was a mysterious man in a black suit, eyes hidden by thin wire-framed sunglasses; his face devoid of any emotion… but most importantly of him was that he had a silenced sidearm trained at her heart, finger slowly applying pressure to the trigger.

            You quickened your pace, eager and desperate to stop him from killing her at all costs, even if that cost was congruent to your short, anonymous life. Yet, as though conspiring with the mysterious man, the walkway stretched by yet another infinitum, prolonging your attempt to tackle the man in attempts to take the gun from his hand. Not only the hallway was working against you, but so was your own body. Your stamina had weakened greatly for the past few moments, and you had slowed down to a crawl. Even so, you still pushed on, denying the fact that it was hopeless, nay, impossible, to get there in time.

            You at last resigned to your fate as you saw the man's arm recoil three times, slowly, arduously, and painfully, each one preceded by a spark from the silenced weapon's tip. Out of three points on her chest exploded crimson flowers, her body jerking into the wall with each one blossoming. Her limp form slumped to the floor as the man raised his weapon vertically, smoke rising from its barrel's mouth. You didn't know where the name came from, but somehow you felt that it was the right name to say at the moment, as though your sub conscience had finally cracked under pressure and told you to be sure that it was the right thing for once. "JERI!" your voice trailed off as your vision blurred and resulted in blackness.

Matsuki Residence, Shinjuku District, Tokyo

Friday, 0030 hours, Local Time…

            Takato Matsuki exploded from under the covers, screaming her name as beads of perspiration ran down his pale, terrified face. It was all a dream… a dream that was so real that it could've happened. That was when he remembered the events that had occurred within the past day. Jeri _was_ dead. That dream could've been how it happened. Sakamori, NS-8's head had said that she was killed during an infiltration operation; that she had died fighting, fighting for the greater good of the network and that of mankind itself. He checked the alarm clock beside his bed, "Twelve thirty A.M. God…"

            Sakamori said that he wasn't the one who recommended him for recruitment into NS-8. Then who was? Neither he nor that Yamamoto character would say anything. He claimed that the one who recommended him had more things on his or her mind besides getting Jeri replaced. But who could've it been? Many candidates ran through his mind, none making sense at all.

            That was when he made up his mind. He was going to join NS-8. He wasn't just going to give Jeri's death justice… he was going to finish what she had started. He was going to fight the good fight the way she did and make her proud. That would be what she would've wanted if she were still alive. And he was going to get at it first thing after school tomorrow, "Don't worry, Jeri," he whispered, his voice very grave, "I'll do the best I can for the network. You can count on it."

Basement Parking Level 1, Nikamura Crediting, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 1647 hours, Local Time…

            At least half a dozen or so unmarked black trucks roared down the concrete ramp as a 'bank robbery' ensued on the main floor, the main diversion for security to intercept. These weren't SWAT Team trucks, however. These belonged to the Agency's Pacific Branch, under the administration of Director Shinji Kaira. Kaira knew how Network Security worked. When a situation occurred that affected their banking front, then they handled it the way any good bank would. That meant most of the security guards were on the first floor in a firefight with a gang of hoodlums that had been hypnotized to go in there and practically get killed in the crossfire.

            The sound of vehicular doors sliding open was followed by the succeeding thumps of compound alloy making contact with the cement floor. Kaira had sent three Knight Strike Teams to get the job done, and he wasn't taking any chances. The Knight Team members' armaments were assorted, from 5.56 M-4 and M-16 assault rifles, to 12-gauge AS-12 automatic shotguns, to 9mm MP5A5 SMGs, to the highly praised Armee Universal Gewher (AUG), an Austrian 5.56mm rifle that NATO forces bragged so much about being able to have. But of course, the reason the Agency was in possession of this was obviously the fact that they also had connections inside NATO, and just about every counterintelligence agency on the planet, screwing around with the information received.

When the KGB wanted the identities of the American spies in their Motherland, the Agency's moles in their counterintelligence made it look like several of their most loyal operatives were actually double agents. When the US wanted to know about Usama Bin Laden's whereabouts using CIA operatives, the Agency's contacts there gave the location of a harmless pig farmer, after striking a deal with the Terrorist leader to keep his knowledge of them secret in exchange for his concealment. The bigwigs at Langley must've figured out his connections with the Agency on their own, though, since they think that _every_ bad thing that happened to America was caused by them, including the earlier September 11 attack on the World Trade Center. They were wrong. The Agency wasn't just responsible for every bad thing that happened to the United States, but every bad thing that happened all over the _world_.

            It had originally begun as a renegade legion under the command of Roman Centurion Maximus Liverius that had secretly conspired against the empire, aiding the Angles and Saxons with information about Roman troop movements and such. Thus, the first _bad_ thing they ever did, was to greatly help with the fall of the Roman Empire. When the Anglo-Saxon alliance had taken over Britain, the said legion had stayed there until the time of British colonization, when their descendants spread their influence around the world to North America, Africa, India, Mainland Europe, Australia, New Zealand, and other continents and countries. Some migrants to Spain and Portugal went with the expeditions of Ferdinand Magellan and other explorers, thus ensuring their grasp on South America and Mexico.

Migrants to other parts of Eurasia settled in Russia and China, establishing connections into the Soviet Union and the orient. German operatives during the time of Hitler's conquest extended their reach into the middle east, thus securing just about the entire planet besides the Pacific sector. It was operatives in the late nineteenth century that started the Agency's roots in Japan, which, during WWII, conquered much of the Pacific, thus ensuring a firm grip on the last part of the world that was free of their influence. By the time of the United Nations' founding, every participating country and even those outside had Agency operatives running around in them. The small and fragile planet known as Earth was now in the palm of their hands.

            "Okay, people, put your socks on and secure the building!" the overall leader shouted, loading and readying his AUG, "Nobody gets in or out unless I say so! Now move!"

            The group of thirty armored men fanned out, covering every nook and cranny of the cramped parking space as they neared the basement entrance, passing another one of those Tabloid-type guards who left you alone if you did the same. The main corridor on the other side was protected by an advanced laser sensor system that created several layers of grids that proceeded 60 feet down the length of the hallway, so that even the best spy could not get through without a 100 % chance of tripping the system and bringing dozens of security agents down on him.

The only time this impenetrable wall of motion detectors was shut down was at 4:50 PM daily for about a few precious seconds for pass code alteration by a security operative at a control panel at an intersection at the end of the hallway. If the system were deactivated and a new pass code was not entered within five seconds, the system would wait another ten before reactivating with a random pass code whose identity is sent to the director's personal terminal and to that of the security room's. The grids would reactivate one by one starting from the entrance to the hall up to a few feet from the panel. In short, when the guard killed the lasers, they would kill him, and have a measly 15 seconds to run 60 feet down a hallway and into the safe zone before the lasers came up again.

            The ringleader was in front of the first grid, peering into his AUG's scope when the security guard came through via the perpendicular corridor and began to type the deactivation number, "Right on time," he said, aiming for the guard's head. He would pull the trigger as soon as the grid went down. And that did happen. "Move it! Move! Move! MOVE!" They scrambled down the hallway in triple file, racing against the clock that indicated 14 seconds, the ones in front more confident that they'd make it than those in the back.

The clock read 8, and the ones in front were only halfway there. Why did ABSA Suits have to be so heavy? Thought the team leader as he made the slowest and longest run in his entire life. Five seconds and he was almost there, "Split up into the fork!" upon reaching the safe zone, he immediately bolted for the one on the left, the hallway to the security room, as he slung the AUG over his shoulder and drew a silenced Berretta. There was one more guard in the security room, and he would see to it personally that he ended up in the body count. Time was up, and the first grid had already reactivated, the activation of the second one, only a one second interval away. The last in line barely managed to make a dive into the safe zone before the last grid suddenly flared to life exactly where he had been standing only a second earlier. He crashed into the corpse of the guard and hit his head on the wall, the shock knocking him out cold.

            "Somebody had better keep an eye on him till he wakes up," a Carbine armed trooper said.

            "Then if you're so concerned about him, why don't you do it?" retorted another, carrying an MP5.

            "Well then if you're so anxious to get away from me, then why don't you watch him?" the Rifleman snapped back, equally as frustrated.

            "That's enough!" shouted the commander as he came back down the hall, reloading his pistol after he emptied the entire clip on a guard with a tough build, "Both of you watch him until he wakes up. The rest of you, follow me."

            "Yes, sir," the two replied, their voices the kind that could just about turn into whines the very next second.

            "Something wrong, sir?" his second in command, armed with an AS-12, asked with concern.

            "I was just wondering. Is it possible for us to take over this place? Even if the Agency _is_ worldwide, and even if we do have moles in Network Security, they still stay ahead of us. What if they know about this attack and make it look too easy for us?"

            "You underestimate your own abilities, sir," the right hand man replied, "You can get us through even if this is a setup. From the way I see it, NS-8 is ours."

Director's Office, 14th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters a.k.a. Nikamura Crediting, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 1653 hours, Local Time…

"You do, of course understand the implications of this occupation you are about to undertake, don't you, Mister Matsuki?" Akira Sakamori placed his elbows on his desk, fingers knitting into a mesh, "And that you aren't joining us just to avenge Jeri Katou's death, yes?"

            Takato Matsuki sat on the chair in front of the aging Director's desk, eyeing him sternly, "Yes, I do."

            "Excellent, then. Your training begins tomorrow. We'll put you through a one-month training period, at which point you will graduate with the rank of Junior Agent. That's when the real deal begins. You get the drift?"

            The former tamer merely nodded.

            "Good. Then it is with great pleasure that I assign you to your handler and new partner, Hiroshi Yamamoto." The Director said, facing the mentioned agent, "I trust that you will cooperate with him as much as you cooperated with Katou and even more."

            "You can count on me, sir."

At that precise moment, a young woman, around the same age as Takato, walked in, the door sliding open and shut as she did. Her hair, tied up in a stiff ponytail, was the color of a fresh, well washed, carrot, and the hue of her eyes resembling that of a Lavender blossom in the spring. These characteristics along with the tomboyish fashion sense that she had and the aloof expression on her face reminded Takato of a certain ghost from the past who had supposedly drowned when the taxi she was riding fell off a bridge and into the river that it spanned.

            "Good afternoon, sir," she addressed Sakamori in a somewhat indifferent tone of voice, and turned to the new recruit, "Same to you, goggle-head."

            Goggle-head… this insult turned teaser turned haunting ghostly memory had resurfaced in the back of his mind. There was no doubt about it… either he was seeing a ghost that matured physically with age, or Rika Nonaka's death was just an elaborate cover up by NS-8 to keep everybody who ever gave a damn about her out of her hair. She probably had requested the procedure personally. Was she the one who requested his recruitment? Why did she do it? What was her motive? His mind's rambling was disturbed by a digitized female voice, "Mister Sakamori, I think we have a problem."

            Takato turned to the source of the voice and was surprised to see Sakamori talking to his PC, "What kind of problem, Virgin?" The tamer stared at the sight for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Yamamoto, and then to who he assumed was really Rika, with an "Am I just hearing things or is this really going on" expression etched onto his face. Yamamoto nodded.

            "Virtual Digital Nexus, Virgin for short," the woman stated, "It's—she's Network Security's primary operating program. She does most of the Digital World work that our programmers can't," she paused shortly, noting the question "Are you really her" that was nailed to his face, "And in case you're wondering, yes. I am Rika Nonaka."

            That statement cleared all doubt about her identity to him, but still posed more questions.

            "We are under attack, Mister Sakamori," Virgin's voice, although digitized, clearly expressed her worry in the trembling tone she used say it. "And I don't know who."

            "It's clearly the Agency planning to retaliate on what we did to them last Wednesday night," NS-8's Director stated the obvious, "How many are there?"

            "About thirty troops, Mister Sakamori, state of the art weaponry and…" she paused for a moment, analyzing the composition of the strange armor that they wore, "Advanced full body ABSA Suits. It's like they're planning to tear the building down."

            "Let's hope they don't plan to do just that. Activate the PA system, please," a red light appeared on the lower right side of his screen, labeled: 'Public Address System Online'. When he spoke, he spoke like a flight attendant, all cheery and creepy at once, "Attention, all operatives. It appears that we have a security breach to handle, so please arm yourselves with any small arms you can find and proceed to the nearest panic room calmly. A security team will take care of the intruders." Even though he had said that, he wasn't so sure about that. Security teams were armed with light machineguns at the most, and weren't exactly equipped with missile launchers.

            That was when the digitized female voice spoke up again, "Mister Sakamori, Cargo Elevators 7, 9, 12, and 3 have just arrived on NS-8 lobby level. Guess who's inside." That was it. Sakamori knew that there was too little time to get everyone into a panic room. The enemy was already here and he had just finished making the public address. People would die, and there was nothing he could do about it. The only thing plausible enough to work was to settle for the last line of defense at the first moment of attack.

            "Virgin, can you activate the emergency lockdown system?" he asked, somewhat unsure that he could save those who were still in the lobby.

            "Give me ten seconds and they won't be able to get any further than the lobby." That was when the gas began to pour into the office through the vents. At first, nobody minded the weak hissing of the ventilation as they excreted a barely visible yellow-green liquid aerosol, but when everybody stared coughing from difficulty in breathing.

            "What the hell!?" Yamamoto managed to say through a series of coughs, "Gas!"

            "Virgin!" Sakamori shouted, "Identify the substance!" there was no reply, "VIRGIN! ANSWER ME!"

            "Sir…" came the computer's voice, scrambled in a way, "Someone has tapped into my network connection with NS-8 and is jamming it. I will completely lose control of the building in approximately one—" the screen blanked out, the only remaining sign that it was active a message written in bold red Arial letters: SIGNAL LOST.

            "Damn!" Sakamori cursed as his vision began to blur. They were using knock out gas. _The bastards…_ It was the last thing he managed to think of before his consciousness failed him.

            Rika had cupped her mouth with her right hand, although that hardly did anything to help. She tried to reach for the sliding office door and open it, but unfortunately, she wasn't aware that Virgin had lost signal and found out about it the hard way. She tried to yank it open with the handle, but it just wouldn't budge. She refused to resign to her hopeless fate and continued pull, fighting the nausea she was experiencing with every last ounce of willpower that she had remaining. Her strength was completely gone as she slumped onto the glass panel.

            Takato was clueless about what was happening. All he knew was that he was getting sleepy. The images around him became distorted. Sakamori and his desk became an eel with a knife in its back, wriggling. Rika's arms were longer than her body and hung limply as she swayed. Yamamoto had collapsed onto the floor and melted into a puddle of goo. That was when everything went black totally.

To be continued…

AN: Hope that wasn't a little too long for you. Truth be told, this was the longest piece of literature, or single document, if you will, (if you could call it that) that I've ever written in my entire life. Should you want to find out what happens next, or to tell me what you think, then please drop a review. If you skipped parts of this because you thought it was too long, then please double back and read those that you didn't earlier, because it won't make any sense without it. The next chapter won't be coming out until August, seeing that I have a lot of school work to attend to, not to mention an essay writing contest to just try winning. Thanks for reading.


	3. CHAPTER 3

AN: Now I know that second chapter was probably a little too long compared to the first, but I just _had_ to get that piece written down or I thought I would go crazy! Now this one is of a little more convenient length … I hope. Pardon my seemingly odd way they say or do things... Spent the last three months watching the entire series on Cartoon Network and I didn't even know it was shown on Fox Kids _long_ before. (In short, I'm late for the news!) The first and second parts of this chapter are set a few hours before NS-8 is attacked by the Agency's forces, just so you know. The inconveniences of the time jump writing style… One more thing: if I made either Henry or Terriermon act a little too OOC then I'm sorry. Won't happen again. At least I hope not…

Looking for a Disclaimer? Sorry, none here. Why don't you check out Chap. 1?

Raids, Reunions, and Revelations 

Tyrano Valley, Level 4 of the Digital World

Friday, 1535 hours, Shinjuku-Tokyo Time…

            The wind howled, blowing tiny pink data bits like tumbleweeds past a narrow pathway between two extremely high wilderness cliffs. A boy, protected from the harsh gales only by the clothes on his back, the dull gray trench coat that kept his identity under wraps, and its corresponding large hat, fought the powerful gust, slowly battling his way into the valley, ignoring the signs that spelled impeding danger as a smaller entity, dressed in a similar fashion, followed him. Now any law abiding Digimon, or tamer, for the matter, would know better than to dare to defy the master of this territory that had placed the signs there in the first place, but these two figures were not exactly permanent residents of the Digital World.

Upon entering the ravine between the massive stone structures and ensuring safety from the chaotic tornado that blew outside it, the boy took his hat's rim between his middle and index fingers, and tipped it off, causing his long, uncombed lavender hair to fall to his back, stopping just a few inches short of reaching his waist. He dug into his pocket, procuring an elastic band, and tied his mane into a loose ponytail as his companion undid its own coat, revealing its form to be a somewhat short creature dressed in what appeared to be its own version of a Kendo Practice Suit, its sleeves outstretching its hands. It carried on its back a long unsheathed bamboo sword, the kind used for the aforementioned martial art.

            Removing his coat and handing it to his partner, Kai Takamiya turned his attention to the MUD strapped to his right wrist and whispered a command, "Storage Pack Program: Engage." The gadget obeyed and phase shifted into the corresponding object, giving a report of its capacity, "Total Weight Capacity: 100kg, Used Weight Capacity: 36kg, Free Weight Capacity: 64kg." _Just what I need,_ he thought, _Lots of extra space._ "Hand me the coats, will you, Kotemon?"

            The small Digimon complied, and tossed both trench coats over to its Tamer who caught them with his left arm and stuffed them into the gaping hole of the gizmo on his right wrist. The new contents were confirmed, corresponding statistics given, "Used Weight Capacity: 40kg, Free Weight Capacity: 60kg." Kai loved the efficiency at which MUDs worked, so many functioning programs in one tiny object. Network Security Programmers who were getting on with the trend of 'the smaller the better' had synthesized the MUDs in the Digital World around the early 90s. They were thus, in nature, realized programs. As far as he was concerned, his MUD was the only one he knew that was ever brought out of the Digital World.

            Being a freelancer had its ups and downs. Kai was very aware of that. Mainly, for him, the ups were being able to enter and leave the Digital World as one pleased, and roam around within it as one deemed fit. Sakamori, thus, giving him ample free time, which he regarded as but just another bonus, rarely called on him. Then, of course, there were the downs. Specifically the fact that he had to be far more cautious than those guys who used Virgin to get into the Digital World, since he didn't have the 'nine lives' that they did. "There are no continues here, my friend," he'd remind himself daily with a line he ripped off from a Konami spy game done by Hideo Kojima, 'Metal Gear Solid', which was currently one of the classics on the aging Playstation console.

            "Kai?" his partner's voice caught the 12-year-old boy's attention.

            "Yes, Kotemon?"

            "Do you think I'll ever reach Mega Level?" this question surprised him a bit, since he never _had_ considered such possibilities in a long while… like since the time they met.

            "Why do you ask?" the lack of preparedness for this topic showed in his somewhat unsure voice as it reached his partner's ear. The possibility of Kotemon reaching his Mega Form, i.e. GuardiAngemon was a practically impossible task to accomplish since Kai had a serious ailment that rendered him incapable of Bio-Merge Evolution without risking metabolic collapse. In short, bio-merging with his partner would literally be the death of him.

This plight, however, was unbeknownst to anybody outside this partnership with the exemption of a few trustees, including the man behind Network Security's Special Edition Digi-Battle Card Deck: an NS-1 programmer by the name of Joseph 'Joe' Brown, whose creativity broke the boundaries between 'legal' and 'illegal' cards. Kai had personally asked for his help in his dilemma, since he was the only person that he knew was one you could count on in such a situation. "Option Cards, or Program Cards, there's not much of a difference," the programmer would say, "They're both modify cards. The one thing you should remember when using them is that they work for you and your partner… to strengthen the both of you in order to overcome the enemy."

Not that the International Digi Battle Card Association (IDBCA) was concerned about option cards that deleted entire decks. They were more worried about program cards that supercharged one or more Digimon cards to the point that their power was considered ridiculous. It wasn't like Network Security operatives didn't have their own social lives, although the only ones armed with the NS edition deck were tamers, most of which either had their profiles on the local police's 'missing person case' list, or had their names written on a tombstone under which rested the corpse of someone else for allegedly dying. Kai's situation was the former.

            "It's just that…" Kotemon paused, looking down at his little shoes, a frog apparently stuck in his throat, "Do you honestly believe that Mister Brown is capable of programming a modify card that can blast me to Mega Level without requiring the two of us to merge?"

            "He's programmed Goliath, Atlas, a host of other unbelievable program cards," the tamer replied, "Why can't he do something like that?"

            "Well…" the Digimon trailed off into yet another bout of insecure silence, "Programming a card to become capable of doing something like that is just—" He was cut off by the sound of a rather small voice from somewhere deeper into the valley, "Did you hear that?"

            "Hear what?" Kai was too deep in thought to hear it the first time, but upon hearing the voice sound off again, he reflexively turned his head towards the direction of its origin. "Sounds like a little girl screaming," he said with a hint of stale humor in his voice, "Think it might be the Digimon Queen in another mix-up?"

            "I doubt it," his partner mumbled, "I don't think she's the kind to scream like a little girl." An idea popped into his head, "Why don't we check it out?"

            They took off deeper into the valley. As they neared the source of the noise, a few things became clear to them. One: there was some kind of battle ensuing, and two: whomever that voice belonged to was no little girl. It _was_ small, though. As the partners came even closer, they finally managed to make out what the small voice was saying, seemingly over and over, with a few seconds' worth of intervals between each statement. "TERRIER TORPEDO!"

            It had finally hit them at that point. It was a Digimon fighting another Digimon. The source of the voice being identified as Terriermon, a Vaccine type Digimon at Rookie Level whose technique was Terrier Torpedp. The flame-eyed boy's brow rose up at this. The small rabbit-like creature was fighting a Tyranomon head on. "Think we should help him?" came the voice of his partner, "Looks like he's in quite a fix there."

            "Nothing wrong in lending a hand," the boy murmured as he pulled out a card from his pack and slid it through the reader of his MUD's D-Arc program which had been activated earlier, "Digimodify! Digivolution! Activate!"

            "Kotemon Digivolve to…" Once again, the white digital bands surrounded his partner, reducing it to nothing more than a wire frame of its former self as its physical attributes began to change. Upon completing its metamorphosis, the Digimon cried out its new name; that of its champion form, "Dinohumon!" It now stood quite a few feet higher than its Rookie self, and was dressed in the manner of an Indian warrior, which consisted dirt-colored pants, a blue beaded necklace, and a feathered bandana around his reptilian head. Both of his hands clutched a short sword, while resting in a sheath on his back was a large Zweihander.

            "Sic 'im, Dinohumon."

            The champion Digimon complied and quickly dashed towards the red saurian, zipping by Terriermon as it did. Stopping but a few feet from the beast, the sword-armed reptile uttered the name of its signature attack, "Lizard Dance!" and launched itself at the Tyranomon. It made contact as it flashed both of its blades outward, quickly followed up by the one in its left hand slicing up from below, which preceded its right-hand sword cutting down, both coming together above the enemy as the finale came as quickly as the first hit, both swords being driven into Tyranomon's skull. The enemy's body quickly began to deteriorate from the head down as Dinohumon removed its blades and reverted to Rookie level, loading the many particles of data as it did. "That was too easy."

            "And what's the big idea stealing my catch, huh, mister cool swords?" sounded a small voice, which, judging from the way it addressed Kai's partner, was very angry.

            "_Your_ catch?" came the bokken-clad creature's surprised response, "I thought that _you_ were its catch."

            "The hell with what you think!" the cream and green horned rabbit retorted, "I had everything under control!" 'Under control' was the last thing one would see the earlier situation if he had seen what shape Terriermon was in. He had been bruised badly and probably needed medical attention, several discolorations of his off-white and light green skin here and there.

            "In that shape?" It was Kai's turn to step out of the unknown and ask a question.

            "All part of the act," Terriermon dusted himself, and it turned out that those 'bruises' were actually coal markings, "To make me look like a poor and defenseless little thing…" That was when he realized which direction the question had come from and swirled around to lock eyes with its owner.

            "That's the first time I've ever seen a Digimon use tactics like that…" the tamer said, "Usually all they do is fight till they're really injured and die of exhaustion."

"Holy mother of—" the horned rabbit cut himself off in mid-sentence, "A TAMER!"

            "Surprised to see me?" the 12-year old did his best impersonation of 'The Matrix: Reloaded's' Agent Smith making a comeback, cocking his eyebrow as he did so. He _was_ still a prepubescent and growing boy, thus needing as much humor in his life as possible.

            "Look, I don't know how you got in here, but I'm betting my last two cents that you know how to get out." Terriermon's voice became dead serious.

            "Why would someone with the likes of you want to get out of the Digital World?" Kotemon asked.

            "Because I have a Tamer too… and he's waiting for me. I just know it."

            "That would explain why he uses such advanced 'strategies'," Kai mumbled to himself. "So, what's his name?"

            "Wong, Henry Wong."

            Henry Wong… that name rang a bell somewhere, but the freelance operative couldn't put it. He'd heard that name somewhere before. He knew he did. The only problem was when and where… "Okay… where does he live?" For some reason, the tamer had bet on the Shijuku district. He couldn't have gotten any closer.

            "Tokyo city, Japan. The Shinjuku district."

            "Fate has a way of weaving things together," the boy commented on the way life was just… too predictable, "In that case, you'd better get ready."

            "Ready for what?"

            "To leave the Digital World," Kai answered, "Digi-Gate Synthesizer Program: Activate." What was once a D-Arc that was strapped to his right wrist changed its form once more into something that resembled a high-voltage taser, small red bolts of energy darting to and fro between the two tips. Pointing his gadget in a direction where there was a large amount of empty space, he said another command, "Digi-Gate Synthesizer: Engage!" which caused the red bolts to jump off from the device's tips and form the jagged outline of a circle a few feet in front of him. This mere outline had evolved into a tear in the fabric of reality itself, to be more specific on looks, a tear that resembled that which lay beneath the Matsuki boy's hideout, which represented a path into and out of the Digital World.

"Needed a lift? Well, this is it." He heard Terriermon gulp as he led the way, stepping inside. It felt like a dream, going so fast, yet so slow. Time had no meaning within. He knew that Kotemon wasn't far behind, although he hoped that Terriermon was close as well.

            "Approaching Digi-Gate Endpoint," a digitized female voice stated, "Please enter coordinates of exit."

            The tamer didn't need to enter the exact coordinates, since the computer had a location-save system. Very convenient. "Saved Point 17, Shinjuku Park Fountain."

            "Digi-Gate Exit Point confirmed. Please await reality rift crossing in tee-minus five…" He hated having to go through this procedure daily, but at least it was faster than having to stick electrodes up your ass while you waited for the giant cylinder you were in to fill up with green liquid that might just as well be contaminated by uranium. At least he thought it was. He could see a small pinpoint of light coming up fast, and the three of them were going to pass through it very soon…

Wong Residence Front Door, 7th floor, Maikazi Building, (Made it up… anyone mind telling me the real name of the place he lives in?) Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 1650 hours, Local Time…

Henry Wong hated having to answer the door… but that was only half of the story. He hated having to answer the door especially when he had just stepped out of the shower, dripping wet, a towel around his waist being the only form of 'clothing' he had. The doorbell rang again. "Alright! Alright! Hold your horses, will ya?" he cried out in frustration. Whoever had the nerve to disturb his afternoon ritual of getting cleaned up had better have a good explanation for it. He could feel the movement of hundreds of tiny droplets sliding down his arm towards his wrist as he turned the doorknob and pulled the door open. Nothing had prepared him for the sight that he was about to behold.

            Standing in front of him, about a foot high, was a small off-white and light green horned rabbit, the very one that had been the object of his dreams for the past five years… a rabbit called Terriermon. He stared at it in shock, frozen in a trance, for a considerable amount of time, until he slapped himself three times to see whether or not he was dreaming… the third of which stung so hard that he yelped.

            The Chinese tamer regained his composure and picked the small creature up, placing it on its rightful place: his right shoulder. "I told you I'd come back, Henry."

            "But why only now?" he asked his vertically challenged partner.

            Terriermon frowned slightly at this, feeling somewhat guilty about not having come any sooner. Then again, the only reason he had come here now was thanks to _him_… "I'm sorry, Henry. I couldn't find my way out on my own. Someone was kind enough to give me a lift, though."

            "Who?"

            The Digimon put his finger to his chin, "A tamer. Not one that we know very well, though… although his face did look somewhat familiar. I think I saw it somewhere before." Terriermon had a thing for watching TV, he just couldn't recollect that time when he saw Rika fight against the last opponent she would defeat during last year's championship. That's where he came in.

            "So where is he?" Henry couldn't express how he felt about his partner returning, and all the more he couldn't verbally express the need to thank this mysterious tamer who was kind enough to help Terriermon out of the Digital World. He had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to do so. Not with the expression on Terriermon's face.

            "You just missed him." The rabbit said.

            "So I thought," the boy answered, "Let's get you inside before you catch a cold…" Ironically enough, Henry was the one who sneezed upon saying this. Mainly because all he wore in this air-conditioned environment right now was a peach towel with his sister's name on it. It wasn't that he borrowed his siblings' towels as a habit, or anything. It was just that he couldn't find his today. _They must've sent it to the cleaners_, he thought as he closed the door.

            Meanwhile, two figures walked down the hallway, headed for the elevator, when something that belonged to the taller rang. "You have mail," a digitized female voice sounded. The taller one, a purple-haired boy of about twelve, checked the object that was secured to his right wrist. "Personal Terminal Program: Activate." The device changed shape into what one would look at and consider as a palmtop computer, although the manner in which it was strapped onto the boy's wrist would make him think twice. The sight of his inbox caused him to pout with reasonable intensity.

            "What's going on, Kai?" asked his partner.

            Kai Takamiya scanned the message, and summarized it, "An automatic emergency bulletin to all non-present operatives sent by Sakamori's personal terminal. NS-8's been attacked by an unknown party which he assumes belongs to the Agency."

            "So, are we going in there and taking them out?" Kotemon had something for fighting, although he couldn't put it. Kai always told him that it was a bloodlust, but he preferred to look at it as a kind of love, love for the sweat from exertion, love for the cries of pain that ensued with each hit, love for the excitement it put through him… Okay, so maybe it was, in a sense, bloodlust.

            "No… to risky." The tamer considered his options, which weren't that many in the first place. First, which was by far the worst, they could break in through the basement, work their way up, but then probably bring an entire security team down on them. Second, they could try to sneak in, avoiding enemy troops, but then waste time. Last, and so far the most logical, call for help and deal with the situation with it.

            "Then what are you suggesting?" the Digimon had either said that out of curiosity, or annoyance. Whichever it was, it didn't matter at the moment, since Kai knew exactly how to answer that.

            "We go ask for help." He knew just the place to get it as well: an old friend of Sakamori's. Not that he was still around NS-8 to even care about them. Although true, the man's job was still in the Network monitoring business, and Kai figured that since they, give or take, were on the same side, he could still be a bit benevolent enough to help them.

            "And where are we going to get help?" Kotemon had always wondered where his partner's brainstorms came from. One would look at him and think that he wasn't that smart, or he wasn't smart at all. The Digimon's experience with him, however, said one thing clearly as the opening door of the elevator, 'Looks can be deceiving.'

            "I know just the place." The freelancer replied, "Follow me," as they stepped into the elevator. He pushed the ground floor button and the elevator close button. The doors met, and they began to move.

            "You know, you should really cut it out with the suspense. Tell me where we're going already."

            "An old friend of an old friend," was all that was said for the rest of the trip to the ground floor.

Interrogation Room, 15th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 1723 hours, Local Time…

Director Akira Sakamori had a terrible headache. He didn't know why. As he slowly opened his eyes, though, he got pretty much enough information to make an educated guess. Standing in front of him was a person coated from the chest downward in dull gray plating, somewhat resembling a knight. His head was protected by a helmet whose front and sides were made of heavily tinted bullet-proof glass, its back portion composed of the same plating that covered the rest of his body. Apparently, this person was watching him, since he spoke, "You're awake? Good. Now we can begin the questioning." That was when he realized that he was strapped into the room's _only_ interrogation chair, nice and tight. They were going to use his own methods to question him…

            "Who the hell are you?" the voice that left his lips was somewhat drowsy, somewhat drunken, and somewhat unstable. _The gas must still have some effect on me…_ he thought. He could only hope that the Emergency Action Bulletin had gotten out before Virgin was cut off…

            "I don't think you need to ask that, seeing as you probably know that answer already." The armored man answered, "Now listen. We believe that you have something that belongs to us. We tried checking all of your terminals, but it turns out that you've 'lost signal'. So let me ask you plainly: Where did you put the CD copy of Project: Toto-Con that you took from us last Wednesday night?"

            He knew what he had to do. He had to play along and pretend that he _did_ know something, since in fact, the only thing he did know about it was the fact that Jeri Katou had failed in bringing the CD back. Why pretend that he did? It was to stall, of course. Hopefully, by this time, someone had gotten that EAB and was working out a plan. With this on his mind, he replied as coolly and as dishonestly sounding as possible, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about." The next thing he saw was the back of the man's right gauntlet coming straight for his face. A moment of darkness ensued, followed by a hot, dull pain on his right cheek.

            "Wrong answer. Let's try it one more time, shall we? Where is the CD copy of Project: Toto-Con?"

            He was now going to opt for the insulting wisecrack. He had to play around with them long enough. It wasn't healthy to give information all at once. He knew the game of interrogate and be interrogated very well, and it was just round two, "Gee, I don't know. Did you try looking up your ass?" Another dull gray blur of movement flashed by his line of sight. This time, though, he felt the sickening sensation that he was going to throw up. He had a pretty much Western style lunch that day… a BLT sandwich with some soda. Speaking of which, he could feel the carbonated drink stirring up bubbles in his stomach.

            "Wrong again. Please try to cooperate so that we can finish this as soon as possible, Mister Sakamori," the man half-pleaded.

            Once again, the man asked that question. This time he was going for the denial, "I don't know." His interrogator dished out another blow to his gut. At this point, he could feel a viscous substance climb his throat and collect in his mouth. It was disgustingly sour from mixing with his gastric juices and other substances, and he definitely didn't want to keep it there. Instinctively, his mouth wrenched itself open, allowing the rancid flesh-orange mixture to find its way to the cold, white floor.

            "I'm going to ask you this question nicely one more time, Mister Sakamori, before I use more… shall we say, 'persuasive' methods. Where did you put the CD copy of Project: Toto-Con?"

            He decided to end the play right then and there. The next thing he said was the insistence of denial, the last step before the interrogator would blow his top and probably beat him to death. Like he said, 'before I use more persuasive methods'. "I told you already, dammit. I don't know!"

            "Suit yourself, then, Mister Sakamori." The man said, a tone of defeat in his voice, "I didn't want to use this, but since you force me to…" He stood up and left the room, allowing NS-8's Director to get a good view of it. The ceiling and floor were pure white, except the spot where his vomit had landed, walls the same on three sides, with one lined by a one-sided glass panel. He could bet that the guy was talking to whoever was watching him and deciding on what to do. There was no clock, and thus he had no way of knowing what time it was. One would go mad if he stayed in there for too long.

            The man came back a few minutes later, carrying a syringe gun and an unlabeled bottle whose contents could be extracted via needle through the layer of skin that topped it. He _was_ going for drastic measures, Sakamori thought. He could easily tell that the man was carrying a bottle of truth serum, whose contents he was loading into the syringe gun. He knew all too well that NS-8's truth serum worked in a matter of seconds, so, simply put, he'd be talking in a matter of seconds. Game Over…

            "Alright, Mister Sakamori. I'm giving you one more chance to talk. After that, it's time, so to speak, to drink your medicine."

            It wasn't the best thing he could say at the moment, although it _was_ the only thing he could say. "Go to hell."

            "So you choose to go at it the hard way, then. Just so you know, the Agency's truth serum formulation is potent to the point that one drop is enough to get a man talking. Add one more, and he won't be talking for a long while… or breathing for the matter. If you know what I mean." Sakamori grunted as the man positioned the tip of the syringe gun to a vein on the inside of his left forearm, "Now I don't know what Network Security's formulation is, and I don't even want to know, but I think that it does go with the standard order of one syringe-full being enough per person, correct?"

            He grimaced as the needle pierced his flesh, sending a pressurized dose of truth serum into his blood stream. Soon enough, that dose would reach his brain, and he would be unable to resist answering the man's questions truthfully. That was when he talked, "Yes, it is."

            "That's more I like it. Now tell me, where did you put the CD copy of Project: Toto-Con?"

            "I don't have a copy of Project: Toto-Con. The operative who was supposed to bring it here was unable to find it after his partner fell."

            "And who is this operative?"

            As much as he hated giving away information on his operatives, the other side of his brain, the one swimming in truth serum at the moment, felt like it would go to Nirvana if he divulged the tidbits. And he did too, "His name is Hiroshi Yamamoto, and he works for me."

            "I see… and where is Agent Yamamoto?"

            "I don't know. The last time I saw him was in my office when you bastards gassed us." It felt good to say that. Although the gravity of the situation was dawning on him, fast. They were going to get Yamamoto, question him, and once they got what they wanted, they were going to kill all the people in this building.

            "Which of the three companions you had in your office was he?"

            "The oldest one… in the suit and sunglasses." He noticed the door open, two more armored men were moving in…

            "And the other two?"

            "Tamers. The boy's a new recruit, and the girl's one of my best agents…"

            "I see… Thank you for your time, Mister Sakamori." He was given yet another blow, this one to the back of his head, which had punched a hole in his bag of consciousness… In short, he was beginning to faint. He felt the straps disappear as the two men picked him up, his interrogator ordering them to bring him to the where they were holding those inside the office in exchange for Yamamoto. The last thing that ran through his mind that moment, was that he had betrayed his men, he had betrayed himself, but worst of all, he had betrayed the Security of the Network…

Lobby, 1st Floor – Metropolitan Center, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 1742 hours, Local Time…

Kai Takamiya and his partner had just waltzed past the customer service station when a guard had stopped them. "I'm sorry, kid. You can't go through there. Strictly for authorized personnel."

            _The meddling security staff…_ he thought as he flashed his identification card in the man's face, "NS-8. This is a matter of Network Security, sir. I'll need to see your boss." He knew, of course, that it wasn't going to do him any good, since the man was either too stubborn, or too stupid, to listen to something as concrete as a badge.

            "Oh, so you're with Network Security, eh?" the guard asked in somewhat disbelief about the twelve-year-old boy's claim, "I'm sorry, but orders are orders: No authorization, no entry."

            "What do we do now, Kai?" sounded a semi-hoarse voice, "Doesn't look like he's willing to cooperate." The guard turned to see a small creature dressed in what looked like a kendo training suit, the sleeves apparently quite a bit too long for it, since they concealed its hands and had a lot of excess that dragged on the ground.

            " Is' at a Digimon?" The man asked.

            "Well, it ain't a little tin man, is it? I'm a tamer," the freelancer answered somewhat bluntly, "Obviously, I should have a partner to go with, you know."

            "D'uh-huh…" was all the uniformed man could say. In his head, it was a simple equation. Digimon Yamaki = Opposing Sides = Argument = End of the World. "If I told you once, kid, I'll tell you again. You are not an authorized person, and only authorized personnel are allowed entry into the upper levels. Therefore, I cannot allow you to pass simply because you're not authorized."

            Kai resorted to the last thing he could think of. He grabbed the man by his collar, brought his face down to his level of height, and whispered harshly into his ear, "Look, mister. This is a matter of Network Security, and I'm willing to go through all obstacles to get my objective done, meaning that I'm going to have to get through you. If you do not step aside this instant, I am going to make sure that I jam my little buddy's bamboo sword so hard up your ass that you'd need specialized medical equipment to help you sit for the rest of your goddamned life!"

            The man was very shaky now, and was seemingly hit by a case of epilepsy. Before anybody could say anything else, though, a new voice, rough in its quality, joined the conversation, "Threatening a government employee, now, are we? Has NS-8's methods gotten too bad for their own good?"

            The tamer turned his head towards the elevator hall to meet face to face with a blond-haired man in his mid-30s wearing a business suit, his eyes shielded by tinted, wire-frame sunglasses. Most important of all his features, though, was the silver Zippo he clutched in his right hand. "And who might you be?"

            "The name's Mitsuo Yamaki," the man coolly replied, "And I run this place. I heard you wanted to see me, so I came down here."

            "You're Yamaki?" the boy said as he released the frightened guard from his grip, "I expected you to be somewhat older."

            "Sorry to disappoint you kid, but I'm only 36. Now, what is it?"

            He approached the man, his voice reduced to a whisper, "Do you think we can discuss this matter somewhere more private? Somewhere like… I don't know… your office or something?"

            "Well, since you put it that way, I assume that this is NS-8's highest priority."

            "Believe me, the outcome of this conversation could easily spell the difference between NS-8's continued operation, and the compromising of its very existence," was all Kai could say as the trio stepped into the elevator.

Hypnos Division, 12th Floor – Metropolitan Center, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 1750 hours, Local Time…

            The doors to a particular elevator parted, allowing three figures passage into the current story. Hypnos Pacific Chief Mitsuo Yamaki adjusted his sunglasses as they stepped out of the cramped space and into the long hallway, "So, you're telling me that an unidentified party with unknown intentions has invaded NS-8 about an hour ago, and that an emergency bulletin has been sent to all non-present operatives. If that's so, then why weren't you present at the time? On leave or something?"

            NS-8 freelancer Kai Takamiya looked up at the older man, "Nah. I'm a freelance operative and rarely go there."

            "I see…"

            "Sakamori also suspects these guys to belong to the Agency. I'm betting on the same thing." The tamer followed up, thinking of something else to say, "So I was wondering if you could help flush 'em out, you know what I'm saying? Assemble your people and go on an assault."

            Yamaki frowned. Apparently, he knew that it wasn't as easy as that, "If what you're telling me is that accurate, and that these men were sent by the Agency, it would take more than an average strike team to take them out."

            "Why?"

            "The Agency sends its special units, Knight Teams, on their top priority situations to get the job done. What makes these guys superior to most other strike units on this planet is their equipment. They use sate-of-the-art weaponry, not to mention super-tensile ABSA armor to get the job done."

            "ABSA?" Kai had heard that somewhere before, he was sure of it. The only problem was that he knew nothing about what it meant.

            "Anti-Ballistics Steel Alloy, some recipe the Agency's scientists cooked up to render their infantry forces practically immune to all small arms and all heavy arms with less firepower than an anti-tank round. The only way to get through _that_ is using AP (Armor Piercing) versions of high caliber assault rifle rounds, which, sad to say, Hypnos is short of."

            "Wait a second…" something was wrong with the picture. How did a man such as Yamaki, someone who as far as he knew, worked with Network Security before, know so much about the Agency's best-kept secrets? "How in the hell did you know all that!?"

            "The answer is simple," Hypnos Pacific's Chief said matter-of-factly as he opened his office's doors and invited the two in, "Before I was recruited by Network Security, I was one of them."

To be continued…

AN: Never expected that coming, did you? I plan to put in more about Yamaki's mysterious past in the next chapter, so hold on. Hope I didn't put in too much freakiness in this, especially Sakamori's err… predicament with his lunch, or Terriermon's pathetic excuse for putting on fake bruises. I've pretty much outlined the whole story in my head so prepare yourselves for more unexpected twists and turns in this little thing I call 'Guardian Algorithm'. For a teaser, I just want to tell you that I plan to put in a 'Yamaki Kicks Ass' scene in the next chapter, and what the hell exactly happened to Ryo to cause him to join the Agency. I ask you, once again, to please review, okay? Oh, and one more thing: I leave you with this short roughly sketched portion of a scene in the next chapter. Don't expect it to be exactly the same, though, it will undergo modifications.

            "We don't do this job because we like doing it, Yamaki," The Squad Commander began his lecture, "I don't like using nerve gas on these people anymore than you do, but high command has given its orders." He stopped to receive a transmission from the chopper, which was hovering just above the train, "The cargo has been secured? Good. And the Gas Canisters?" he paused to listen, "I see. Hurry up, Itsuka. The train reaches Sendai in two hours; I want it derailed in half."

_            "But these people are innocent!" I cried in protest, "What did they ever do to us?"_

_            "You don't get it, do you, Yamaki?" he replied sternly, "Anybody, men, women, children, rich, poor, crippled or not, who has witnessed any of the Agency's activities is no longer innocent. They've seen TOO much and must be silenced!"_

_            That was when I realized, for the first time, how horrible these people were, how unjust the Agency's policies were. Some on this train were barely a year old! How could I live with the knowledge that I had aided in the murder of who could possibly be great leaders, loyal soldiers, diligent and hardworking citizens? Alas, there was nothing I could do. We had orders, and we had to follow them…_


	4. CHAPTER 4

AN: sigh having a hard time with this… don't know if I can carry on. To you people who are still actually interested to see how this story unfolds, I ask you all to put me on your alert lists that you may be notified upon my updates. I am dead serious. If you don't do that, I don't think it will be possible for you to catch my rare updates due to the hundreds of updates and new entries that flood the Digimon category EVERY minute or so. Do you know any other possible reasons for why this section is so damned big? I didn't think so. Oh, and regards to everybody who's been reading this so far, it's really you guys who inspire me to carry on! So, I'm going to start right now, what I should've started doing since the first chapter… answer your reviews!

Richard Nagato: Thanks for the tips you've given me thus far… I had no idea that it was the Tokyo Metropolitan Building

newbi: There's a reason for everything. Just wait for this one…

All Reviewers From past chapters: I can't say much, except, ask you to be patient with me… School is much harder than I had expected. I've already suffered from several writers blocks in the past that had me stop certain long fics completely.

Disclaimer: I've thought about it, and… well, no. Why put up another disclaimer for this chapter when one disclaimer for this fic is enough?

Memoirs, Massacres, and Megalomania 

Twenty years earlier…

            __

_            It was my first field assignment with the Agency. I'd graduated as a top student of their academy and was immediately moved into the Knight division. At the time, my superiors told me that we were going to raid a passenger train carrying some kind of highly classified cargo. Knowledge of its contents was at authorization level Omega 13, a.k.a. Maximum Level Restriction. To be more precise, only the Director was allowed to know what was in it._

_            The operation was simple enough; we had broken in through the cargo hold and secured the goods to our Blackhawk, although seeing a military-issue helicopter hovering above the freight car most certainly caused a commotion with the passengers. That was when we received a message from HQ. Command had sent follow up orders, instructing us to use the crate's worth of nerve gas canisters that they had tech load onto the chopper on the crew and passengers on the train. I, of course, having no idea of the Agency's true being, detested._

_            "I don't like the sound of this, sir. Isn't it genocide to use nerve gas on these people?" I was protected by an ABSA suit at the time, which they later confiscated after I resigned, playing around with the canister I held. It was surprising how such small containers could house something that could kill so many. And I certainly wasn't going to have myself held responsible for something like this._

"We don't do this job because we like doing it, Yamaki," The Squad Commander began his lecture, "I don't like using nerve gas on these people anymore than you do, but high command has given its orders." He stopped to receive a transmission from the chopper, which was hovering just above the train, "The cargo has been secured? Good. And the rest of the canisters?" he paused to listen, "I see. Hurry up with those Timed Charges, Itsuka. The train reaches Sendai in two hours; I want it derailed in half."

_            "But these people are innocent!" I cried in protest, "What did they ever do to us?"_

_            "You don't get it, do you, Yamaki?" he replied sternly, "Anybody; men, women, children, rich, poor, young, aged, crippled or not, who has witnessed any of the Agency's activities is no longer innocent. They've seen TOO much and must be silenced!"_

_            That was when I realized, for the first time, the horrors that these people kept hidden; how unjust the Agency's policies were. Some on this train were barely a year old! How could I live with the knowledge that I had aided in the murder of who could possibly be great leaders, loyal soldiers, diligent and hardworking citizens? Alas, there was nothing I could do. We had orders, and we had to follow them…_

_            Our team left the train on the run, us flying in the opposite direction it ran. The C4 charges would detonate in less than thirty minutes, derailing the train and most probably killing everybody who survived the gassing… if anybody did survive._ _It was only when I saw the team leader bring his thumb down on the gas release switch that I realized how much I felt that this job that I had taken, this 'occupation' that had befallen me, was wrong… just plain wrong. I went straight home that night, not even bothering to remove my work clothing, if you could call a tight business class suit and sunglasses work clothing._

_            The next morning, I got up with a bad start. My neck ached at its worst, I felt sweaty all over, and worst of all, I was in a serious need for a shower, that which I took. Living alone had its perks and pits, that was for sure. One thing was that I could do whatever I wanted at home, whenever I wanted to do it. The pit, though, was that nobody would clean up after me when I wasn't present. _

_I sat down in front of the TV set with a bowl of cornflakes in milk at hand, and set it on the nearby coffee table as I reached for the remote control. The first thing I saw was a live news report on the on that very train, which, an hour and a half before reaching the Sendai station, exploded and derailed from the National Railway, disrupting locomotive traffic in the sector. It appeared that our secondary mission was successful, the crumpled remains of the train causing me to rephrase that thought… it was VERY successful. Hazmat-shielded government operatives worked at the train in the background as the reporter rambled the usual 'this is a terrible tragedy' crap that they always said at the site of just about every genocidal location they were assigned to._

_            I could just imagine the look of anguish on the faces of the victims' relatives, and I swore, that I'd be able to tell them apart from everyone else if they went past me. I had made up my mind, then. I was going to quit the Agency before I became responsible for things worse than what was currently being shown on television…_

_            I didn't report for work that day… or the next… or the next. Until finally they called up, asking what was wrong. When I said that nothing was wrong, and that I was just taking a well-deserved vacation, they summoned me to the Director's office. That was exactly where I wanted to go. We had a short conversation on the weather before I finally got down to business and handed him a form of resignation that I had prepared the other day. All I needed was for him to sign it._

_            "I understand why you want to leave the Agency behind, Yamaki. Your Squad's Leader told me everything." He signed the form, "I will let you go, but on one condition."_

_            "Name it." I was willing to accept anything at that point, just to get out of this box._

_            "You are to keep everything you know about the Agency undisclosed. If we find out that you told anybody about it, and I'm sure we will if you did, you, and your witness are dead. Literally. Is that understood?"_

_            I knew he wasn't bluffing. It was very easy for one who had just ordered the death of nearly a hundred people to have somebody who was once his own, along with another person he hadn't even met, killed. "I understand." And with that, I was off…_

_            I decided to get a normal job, so I went to the nearest bank, Nikamura Crediting, to apply as an accountant. It was during my interview that I first laid eyes on Akira Sakamori, the bank's Vice-President and at the time, Deputy Director of NS-8. It seemed to pique his interest that I had worked for D-Tech, as though he knew that it was just a front for the Agency… or what I thought was the whole Agency at the time. I didn't know that it was a worldwide conspiracy until NS-8 had recruited me. We didn't have much of a conversation, though. He was all 'straight to business'._

_I was accepted, and given a post on the 12th floor. What I didn't know at the time, was that I was carefully being monitored by NS-8's surveillance division. Every slight movement done, everything said, every breath taken, even every beat of my heart, was being recorded by their 24-hour observation system._

            Finally, I was called by the President, Satoshi Nikamura, and was told everything. I was interrogated, given a shot of their nutty truth serum, and when it turned out that I wasn't the mole they thought I was, they recruited me. The rest, I'm sure you know, is history…

Chief's Office, Hypnos Division, 12th Floor – Metropolitan Center, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 1800 hours, Local Time…

            "So what you're telling me is that you were in this so-called Knight Division, the Agency's special unit," Kai Takamiya concluded, reclining into the leathern 'comfy' chair that was given of him, his partner doing likewise. "If they're as good as you say they are, how in the screwed up hell are we going to take thirty of those guys down, when you say that Hypnos is incapable of AP ammunition?"

            "We'll just have to call in a few favors…" Yamaki knew the Knights pretty well for someone who spent merely one day's worth with them on an actual mission. He knew them in terms that could best be described as technical. To be more exact, he knew ABSA's physical limits, he knew how much a fraction of the Agency's shopping cart was divided unto them, he knew the kind of training these people went through to get thus far.

The few things he didn't know, tactics, strategies, individual skills, were the things that frightened him the most, and the only way to take down such fear was to crush those unknown factors with another force that he estimated had an equal, or even superior level of the same variables. A fighting force capable of such would only be available to the highest military ranks in the most advanced of countries. So he called in the only favor he was certain would fit his description of such a force: The United States Military Headquarters, otherwise known as the Pentagon.

Highway 12, Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, California

Friday, 0007 hours, Local Time…

            Agency Chief Director Jacob Marlon yawned as he drove down the lonely highway. It had been a rough day for everyone, especially him. Akiyama had arrived at LAX a few hours earlier, flown in from Japan as per orders to meet somebody important, namely his new partner. Then there was that unsurprising bit of info that Intel had given him, concerning Kaira's final decision. _The idiot finally launched that attack!_ It didn't matter, though. He'd take care of that personally by the end of the week, meaning he would have to take a flight to Japan the next morning, and that he'd have to call Julia again to establish the assurance that he wasn't cheating on her. If he knew his wife, he expected that when he said he was going to Boston on a business trip, she'd think he was going to Venice just to while away non-existing spare time with its women. It was high time he told her where he was really going… and give an excuse.

            Not even his own wife knew the true nature of his job. The Agency's frontal corporation, D-Tech, was supposedly an international company started in the late 1990s by some imaginary Multi-Billionaire by the name of Johnny Walker. Of course, the media could easily smell the liquor since, technically speaking, Johnny Walker _was_ connected with Black Label, one of the top liquors worldwide. They beleaguered the Agency's headquarters all day long for a week, until finally, a bumbling operative, ordered to pose as 'Johnny Walker', stepped up to the podium… and screwed up.

Marlon's only option was to have him terminated. This got the desired effect of drawing attention towards them. It would allow them to explain themselves in what D-Tech actually did: Computer Technology. It would give them a chance to actually give the media, and hopefully everybody who was so far unaware of the Agency's existence, something false to chew on. Marlon had used $38M of the Agency's global bank account to purchase a small estate on the Californian countryside, months before D-Tech's supposed founding date under the alias of what else? Johnny Walker.

Furthermore, he made several international business transactions under the pseudonym of Johnny Walker. His job was to prove that the bastard actually existed. For this operation, the shadow man had given him access to all of the Agency's assets and just about everything needed to convince the 'innocent' fraction of the world that there was a Johnny Walker.

            Of course, all that stopped when the bumbling agent was killed. They decided to make it appear that Marlon, 'Vice-President' of the company, was given the whole thing. And that was the end of it. "Mister Walker had made many powerful enemies during his career," he had said during a press conference, "It was likely that sooner or later someone would try to have him killed. Investigation, I feel, is unnecessary. It was just his time to go." That assassination went down in history as another unsolved conspiracy mystery that went with the lines of John Smith, John Lennon, and John F. Kennedy. Now, another John, John Walker, had joined the bandwagon.

It was still quite a way to his destination, and the annoying Elvis music wasn't helping him out any better than the way his shades darkened the road he saw to near-zero vision. Thump. The pearl-black Lamborghini ran over something. _Road Kill_, he thought as a malevolent smile found its way to his face.

            He changed the station to something more modern, but unfortunately, was unprepared for the heavy metal that suddenly blared out of his speakers, causing his expression to disfigure into one of disgust. He never did like that kind of music. It was more like noise to him. The solution was simple enough that he just turned it off. Consulting the dashboard-mounted GPS of his location, he whispered to himself in a somewhat bored manner, "36 miles to go…Time is gold." The car gained more speed and ran off westward, crushing a careless brown rabbit in its wake.

Agency Weapons Testing Grounds, Mojave Desert, California

Friday, 0116 hours, Local Time…

            A towering 65-foot machine that somewhat resembled Mechwarrior's Clan Masakari Omnimech™ slowly stepped forth, a compartment on its back opening to allow passage for a large cylindrical object. Upon the completion of its exodus, it tilted in the machine's forward direction until it was completely horizontal, a crackling ball of cyan energy materializing at the barrel. The ball of light grew several times its original volume and catapulted itself forward towards a marked target, a blinding beam trailing in its wake. Upon its making contact with the target, causing a violent detonation roughly a mile in radius. Nothing was left.

            Standing stark naked inside the massive machine, surrounded only by a matrix of digital origin as he surveyed the damage, was Ryo Akiyama. "And that is what I call the Megadrive Destroyer," a mechanical voice rang in his ear.

            "So what you're telling me is that when you Digivolve, your techniques evolve from its current state to a more powerful version?"

            "Exactly," it replied, "Instead of shifting from say, Pepper Breath to Nova Blast, the champion attack would be something like from Pepper Breath to Nova Breath… although the techs don't sound as cheesy as that."

            "The Agency designed your new body that way, eh? I guess we _have_ been away from each other for too long." the Agency operative answered.

            "Such is the price of our power," was all that his partner could say before another sound caught Ryo's attention. It was his comm.-link earpiece.

            "Agent Akiyama," the accent was black. Not exactly ghetto, but nonetheless black, "The Chief Director has just arrived, and he wants to see you now." Finally, he was going to meet the man behind it all. He'd heard much about the Chief Director of the Agency. The man had survived Desert Storm and Somalia all that time secretly working his way up the Agency's Ranks while the United States gave him medals and awards he hardly deserved. He'd been ensuring himself a good and proper investment. When he retired from the army in 1994, He was Agency's Chief Director, _and_ 'Vice-President' of its cover company, D-Tech.

            "Time to split up."

            "Sadly, yes."

Underground Bunker/Staff House, Agency Testing Grounds, Mojave Desert, California

Friday, 0130 hours, Local Time…

            The door opened suddenly, causing Agency Chief Director Jacob Marlon to jerk his head from the clipboard-mounted profile he was reading, apparently trying to see who was at the door. Seeing the face just outside the room resulted with him eyeing the photo in the profile. They were exactly alike… "Ryo Akiyama, I presume? My name is Jacob Marlon, and I am the Agency's Chief Director. I'm in charge of the entire organization. All the other Directors, including your boss Kaira, who I must say is a complete imbecile, are my subordinates. But I'm sure you already know that."

            "More or less," was the short and casual reply.

            Marlon knew he was forgetting something, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. "So, you're the man I've been hearing so much about. Your superior speaks highly of you."

            "Ah, Kaira's just kidding. I'm not as good as he thinks I am," the tamer was simply trying to be modest. Somehow, he was a little too modest for the older man to understand.

            "I don't think so, Mister Akiyama," Marlon briefly scanned the profile yet again, "Your profile says that you passed your training with flying colors, outmatched every classmate you had in combat drills and broke the record for fastest movement through the obstacle course twice, the second record broken being your first record breaker."

            "They never told me that… hell, they never gave me any results at all. I always felt that I was on the average."

            "It's Standard Operating Procedure to keep confidential information confidential. We consider training results confidential simply because of our fear that the operatives to which their results, if ever highly significant, are disclosed, they would become overconfident and lose focus." The Agency's Chief Director stole a glance at the chair that sat in front of his desk. That, and the fact that Akiyama was still standing outside the door reminded him of exactly what he had forgotten to do earlier, "Oh, how rude of me! Come in! Sit down!" He offered Ryo some of the mints that sat in a bowl on his desk, which, out of what Marlon considered as courtesy, the younger man took one of and popped into his mouth.

            "That figures," the newly reinstated Tamer answered as he sat down.

            When Marlon thought that the boy was settled enough, he asked a question that probably puzzled Mister Akiyama as much as it puzzled him, "Have you ever played C & C, Mister Akiyama?"

            "C & C? Which one?" Ryo wondered why a grown man with an extremely professional job like Jacob Marlon would think of such a game as C & C. It wasn't like he had a lot of spare time to play any of the so far six known titles namely the original Command and Conquer, C & C: Red Alert, C &C Tiberian Sun, C & C Red Alert 2, C & C Generals, and C & C Colony (made the last one up. After all, this takes place in 2007, just so you know. The D-Reaper incident, I presume, occurred in 2002, so correct me please if I'm wrong).

            "Generals. It's the only one where you can construct multiple Super Weapons of the same kind. Apparently, those jerks at EA Games and Westwood thought that in Generals, too many Super Weapons due to too much money made the game pretty much boring, even when up against a 'Brutal Level' opponent, so they brought back the 'One Super Weapon per Faction' rule in the next game."

            "Generals? Well… I did try it once. I Played United States against Several Chinese opponents at Brutal Difficulty. All it took to beat 'em was a dozen or so Particle Cannons." This statement seemed to rouse the interest of the Director, whose facial expression became one of curiosity.

            "Interesting… and how did you feel when you deployed your Super Weapons?" another perhaps, personal question; another question that wasn't to be expected from a man such as Jacob Marlon who was pretty much, very realistic. That was, of course, if what Kaira had told him about the Chief Director was true.

            "Well, for the record, I felt that I wanted to see more of those particle beams frying my enemies. The more particle beams I saw, the more I wanted. Why?"

            "Megalomania, Mister Akiyama. It's one of those suspiciously powerful feelings hidden deep down inside our hearts; a seemingly unquenchable thirst for power that we all, more or less, have within ourselves." By this time, Marlon had put down the clipboard and took a sip of the creamed coffee in the mug that sat on his desk. Apparently not satisfied by its taste, he punched the intercom with his pointer and called on the aged secretary just outside the office. "I thought I said it clearly, Mrs. Adrickson. I wanted my coffee _black_," he stressed the word 'black' to make sure that she heard it right. Once the order was acknowledged and the connection cut, he turned back to his conversational partner with a face that had the statement 'Now where was I?' written all over it and started again. "One of my hobbies is to monitor the Agency's income, check our current financial goal, and increase it tenfold when I feel like doing so. Do you know what that means?"

            "That you're a greedy, low-down, good-for-nothing son of a bitch who can't get enough cash in his pocket no matter how much he gets?" This was, of course, just a joke, since the manner in which the tamer stated it was far from serious. Apparently, Marlon wasn't amused at all, this being confirmed by the way in which he ignored it and got straight to his point.

            "I'm a megalomaniac, Mister Akiyama. I don't know the meaning of the word 'enough'. It does not exist in my vocabulary," he paused momentarily, "Do you have any idea why I'm telling you this now?"

            "No."

            "I see…" The Chief Director of the Agency manipulated the shape of his lips into a thoughtful curve, "It's very simple, really. Being a megalomaniac, I have a great thirst for power. The only way to achieve that power, for me, is through the exploitation of those like myself who want more… who _need _more. The only difference between me and everybody else is that I already have power and want more, while they don't have so much as enough to even control their own lives. Do you know why?" He didn't give Ryo a chance to say anything before he answered his own question, "Because, my dear boy, _I_ am in control of their lives. They're in the passenger's seat while I do all the driving. I tell them when to come to work, I tell them who to assassinate, I'd even tell them to jump off a bridge if I wanted to! But then, the third wouldn't be such a wise thing to do. It's terrible to lose a downright useful agent just because you wanted to satisfy your power-hungry ego."

            "So why are you ranting about like this in front of me?" Ryo needed to understand why this guy was talking with irrelevance to his current mission. Either that, or he was in desperate need of somebody to talk to and bring the heavy burden of his personal opinions on. But why would Marlon choose him? He had that black guy. He had everybody else from the Agency to pick from. Why him? Jacob Marlon's next statements were the answer.

            "Mister Akiyama, _you_ are currently that downright useful agent, and I'm telling you, you are the last person on this planet I'd order to commit suicide. You and your partner are the only two on this planet that stand between the success of Project: Toto-Con, and its utter failure. Know this: we are leaving this facility first thing tomorrow morning along with Mechmon, and proceed directly to Japan to oversee that Project: Toto-Con goes smoothly."

            The last sentence raised the teenager's eyebrow, "We, sir?"

            "Yes. We. I have some personal matters to discuss with your boss, Kaira. Sort of a 'spur of the moment' kind of thing."

            "Now you're making sense." The Agency's only tamer finally concluded.

            "Of course."

            Outside, Mrs. Adrickson brought the tray of Marlon's black coffee to the doorstep, and knocked.

Cell 16, Holding Chamber, 15th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 1941 Hours, Local Time…

Takato Matsuki stirred and opened his eyes to see a pair of gray irises staring into his own amber ones, the sight of which caused him to jerk back. That didn't work out so well, since, his head hit the wall that stood directly behind him with a relatively loud 'bump', "Ouch!" He grasped the back of his head in attempts to drive the pain away, in the meantime examining the person who kneeled in front of his own floor-seated self. He was a past-middle-aged man wearing a business suit, had graying hair, and a beard that said 'Look! This guy hasn't shaven in days!' It was NS-8 Director Akira Sakamori.

            "Sorry about that," the Director apologized, "You wouldn't wake up, so I had to shake you."

            "Well you didn't have to scare me into a wall, you know," the boy answered. He noticed the walls that were different from that of the office, "What happened?"

            "The Agency somehow managed to break through our security and take over. They're looking for the CD copy of their big project."

            "Did you hand it over?"

            Sakamori shook his head, "We don't have it, although they think we do. Even if I did have it, they'd have to kill me to get their hands on it."

            "Why'd they have to kill Jeri anyway?" another voice joined the conversation, "She was my only _real_ friend here… my only _real_ friend at NS-8…"

That statement caused Takato to look around the oddly hygienic space, which, from the iron bars that separated it from the hall, he concluded was a prison cell of some sort. At last, the former tamer spotted another figure sitting near the closed exit, staring into the hallway, a strange relaxedness seemingly radiating from her as she twirled an expensive mechanical pen around in her fingers. It was almost as though being locked up in a holding cell didn't bother her at all. Her purple and, pretty much, bored stiff eyes told him as much. Who was this girl sitting at the door with her hair in a stiff ponytail? Was she really the one who allegedly died half a decade ago? And what was the reason that he couldn't get his eyes off hers? Why did he feel like they were drowning him in some kind of grape juice of emotion? She was bored, tired, scared, frustrated, and wanting, all at the same time.

            "Rika…" now he knew why Jeri alluded to her so much all these years. The two had probably met with each other again, and gotten close, possibly because they had nobody else to get close to… He could remember what Jeri said when he and Henry had joked about how Rika was a real bitch, "Rika would kill you two if she were still around, you know," and they would just shrug her off using Rika's being 'dead' as an excuse to say such things. _If only I'd known any better…_

            The lavender orbs turned his way to catch him staring right into them. What came out of their owner's mouth was a curt, "What?"

            He found himself turning crimson as his gaze fell to the floor, "Um… nothing. Well, actually," he brought his face to her level and looked her straight in the eye, trying to sound sincere as possible, "Tell me, Rika… were you and Jeri… close?"

            "Close…" the redhead replied, "You have no idea at all. We were more than just 'close' as you understand it. We shared a bond that no two sisters ever had. We did everything together…" closing her eyes, she shook her head, "Eating at the bar across the street, playing air hockey in the Recreation Room, even going through target practice together!"

            "Uh…" the boy tried to start, but unfortunately, was cut off.

            "We were so close that everybody else thought we were lesbians even though we weren't. We just had a lot of things in common… that was all. Nobody understood me the way she did… nobody. Even if I had I sister I'd doubt that she'd know as much as Jeri did about me."

            "I can try," Takato encouraged. The reaction was unexpected… Rika Nonaka, the Legendary Digital Ice Queen, the same ice queen who, due to her frost, even the cold evil Icedevimon once tried to seduce into damnation, the same ice queen who showed none of how she felt inside, now turned toward him with wide, teary eyes, looking almost… helpless. The next moment, she had her head buried in his shoulder, the sound of her nearly silent sobbing gradually becoming pure unchecked wailing that filled him with the impression that long-concealed pains were finally being released. It was as though the event of Jeri's death had become a sledgehammer that had torn down the frozen walls she had built to forever imprison the tension and sorrow that continued to rise.

This continued for a few moments until she finally managed to calm down, looked up from her position and straight into his eyes, saying, "Thank you…" The Ice Queen was finally free, so to speak, her frozen palace crumbling away like any other frozen structure at the peak of springtime.

            A voice interrupted the seemingly pure emotion of this scene… "I'd really hate to be a jerk and ruin your session of 'Getting-to-know-each-other-again-after-five-years-of-separation 101', but it's part of my sworn duty to remind you of a few things. First is the fact that we are being held captives by enemies of the network, that Yamamoto is being interrogated and most likely to blurt out that he knows nothing only to be killed, and that we have to escape if we're going to be able to do anything about the first two situations." It was Sakamori, who had just pulled out the heel of his right shoe, revealing a high-powered mini-laser. _Just like in the movies_, he thought as he started zapping the vent cover's bolts one by one.

            The two could only watch as, removing the vent shaft's grill, he reached into his pocket, drew out an earpiece, and handed it over to Takato. "That's linked directly to mine via radio waves. Contact me if anything turns up." The boy nodded silently and placed it into his own right ear, although it was somewhat wrongly to the point that Rika had to adjust it for him. Seeing that done, the director of NS-8 climbed into the vent shaft, and closed it behind him…

Blackhawk Alpha, NS-1 Delta Force Unit, Approximately Five Miles from NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 2035 hours, Local Time…

            Even at 'Stealth' level, the hum of the chopper's rotors was unbearable… or so Mitsuo Yamaki thought. The seven other Delta Force Commandos sitting with him didn't seem to mind. It appeared as though they were more concerned about keeping their rifles squeaky clean, rather than take care of their hearing… That he could tell from the way they ran their rags somewhat sentimentally over the black metal, polishing them with such delicacy that one would think each were a mother bathing her child who she had caught playing in the mud. Ever since Somalia, the military campaign from which the blockbuster movie 'Blackhawk Down' was based on, Rangers and Delta Force were required to arrange themselves into groups of 4-8 called 'stacks'. This was the most efficient grouping, as far as they saw it, and proved to be just that during the US-Iraqi war, in which less than a hundred Coalition forces were killed in total, compared to the Iraqi's losses, more than ten thousand, so far.

The operation was simple enough. Delta Team had gone ahead on foot and in a few moments, would have disabled the Agency vehicles' long-range radars after silently killing everybody guarding them (the vehicles). They would of course, give signal that their part of the job was complete. That was when everyone else would move in. Alpha Team, led by Yamaki himself, would storm into NS-8's primary via elevator, securing the elevator hall. Bravo team would then drop onto the roof and secure the stairwell. Teams Charlie and Echo would rappel into the building via north and south sides, whilst Foxtrot and Golf would do the same to the east and west sides, effectively boxing the Agency's forces in, not one sparing. The element of surprise wouldn't be a problem thanks to the dozens of police vehicles parked outside, still convinced up to now that it was a bank robbery. Surprisingly enough, though, no SWAT teams have been deployed at all…

It was hard to understand why the public was so easy to fool… The world's governments had made thousands of cover-ups to their activities and discoveries and it seemed as though they bought every one of them. There was the Lincoln Conspiracy's perpetrator, Actor John Wilkes Booth; the fact that he was but a mere pawn serving under key government figureheads of the day. Then there was the founding of Network Security, of course. Along came Roswell, its 'Weather Balloon' never being suspected to be a real live alien spacecraft. Next was the Watergate Scandal, which lead to President Richard Nixon's resignation. What was the true identity of 'Deepthroat', Watergate's mysterious informer? Was he still alive? Most probably, because the only few people who knew who he or she really was told everybody that his identity would only be revealed to the public when he died. And until now they haven't said a word. Did that mean that Deepthroat was in a retired people's home somewhere on the United State's soil? Last, but not the least, so far, was the reality that Digimon were key players on a global scale and that they were capable of annihilating all of humanity… Unfortunately, this fact had uncovered itself, and had been accepted as something the media could never explain.

These were only few of the many conspiracies that the only US government had covered up. How many more could they have kept? How many more were being covered up at the very moment? What of the other nations' governments? Did they deceive their populace the way the Americans did? Of course. Not even NS-8's existence had gone public yet. So far, everybody who wasn't aware of NS-8's existence believed that it was just a plain bank. Then of course, there were those few smart individuals who didn't exactly buy what they were given until finally, they were either terminated by 'kill teams', given this knowledge along with a vow of silence, or recruited into it all just for the heck of it.

Yamaki still couldn't believe that he was actually going on an operation with Delta Force. He had called up the Pentagon to ask for help. He didn't expect at all that the one who would answer his request was going to be NS-1's director, General Harvard 'Harvey' Kytell. The man was powerful enough in the United States Military alone, moreover his position at NS-1, the American NS Cell. He was a Five Star General, a damned Five Star General! Thus, it was only right that he had control of his own Delta Force Division, trained under NS-1's protective wing. They knew as much about the Digital World and Digimon as their director did, which was to say, a lot, and were equipped to meet the challenge of someday going up against these 'magnificent' creatures in battle, as Kytell had described them.

            "Sir?" a voice addressed. Yamaki turned to see a relatively young soldier, early twenties at the most. He was staring at Yamaki rather quizzically, causing the older man to smirk.

            "Yes?"

            "What's a Digimon like?" he could tell that this guy was more of a thinker than a fighter.

            "What's your name, sonny?" was the reply.

            "Lt. Eric Dawwes, sir."

            "Well, Lt. Dawwes, before I answer your question, let me ask you something." If his hunch was correct, the guy was into cerebral things and planned to get out of the Military as soon as possible.

            "Go ahead, sir."

            "Do you watch television?"

            "Yes sir, I do."

            "Do you remember the first report that concerned Digimon came out?"

            The soldier scratched his cheek and looked up for a moment, obviously deep in thought. When he looked at Yamaki again, he had a confident expression on his face, convincing the older man that he did remember that report. "That would be the one with the giant pig-like… did NS-1 call it a 'deva'?" Yamaki was right. This guy was a thinker.

            "That's right. A Deva. Each and every one of them was _based_ on the Chinese Calendar. That's what Digimon are. They're nothing but imitations of the original thing. I'm sure that NS-1's archives have information on just about every one of them. Do you know any Digimon that wasn't based on a real-life concept?"

            "Not really… I'm not that into Digi-Battle cards; or the real thing, for the matter."

            "I see…"

            The pilot's voice disturbed their conversation, "We'll be at the target building in two minutes, guys, so lock and load. I'll be letting you down a block or two from NS-8 so we won't be seen." He spoke on the intercom with the other pilots, "Okay, you guys just go up to high altitude, and leave the dirt to us."

            _This is it…_ Yamaki thought as he thrust a 30-round magazine of 5.56 AP into the chamber of his modified M4A1 with riflescope and silencer attachments, locking it into place. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they would say. Out of the Digital and into the real, as he would put in a revised version. It had been fifteen years since he had done something like this, but he could still feel that adrenaline pumping through every artery, vein, and capillary of his body, giving him enough energy to lift an oak table and use it to thwack somebody, so to speak.

            The Blackhawk lowered itself over a small alley created by a pair of short buildings, probably apartments, its passengers dropping ropes upon which they rappelled to the bottom. The drop off point wasn't exactly pleasant; unnoticed garbage dumpsters reeked of rotting foods from all the groups, a rat or two scurried in the dark corners, and one could swear that he could smell a corpse decaying somewhere in all that. They weren't soldiers for nothing, though…

"Move out," was Yamaki's first order. The stack of eight proceeded out of the alley and scrambled down the street, which had been barricaded up to a block from NS-8 by local police. Hopefully, they wouldn't run into any of them. He paused as his comlink rang. "Yamaki here… Copy that, Delta leader. Job well done. Yes, were good to go and are heading your way. Your orders are to remain on standby and await further instructions. Out." This was going to be some operation…

Interrogation Room, 15th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 2045 hours, Local Time…

            Knight Commander Reiji Konosume rested the bloody torture tool on the sheet of cloth on the table, housing other insidious devices. He turned his attention to a shades-clad man in a messy business suit who seemed to be afflicted with a terrible nosebleed and said, "Well, then, Mister Yamamoto… it appears that you do know nothing about Project: Toto-con. In that case…" The ABSA-suited soldier drew his pistol and trained the silenced muzzle at Yamamoto's forehead. Just as the trigger was about to be pulled, however, a comlink's ringing broke the silence.

            Konosume replaced the Berretta into its holster and tapped on the link, "What is it?"

            The answer came from his second in command, Yu Tsubaka, "Sir! We're under attack!"

            "What!?" the Knight Commander retorted in surprise and anger, "By who!?"

            "I don't know, sir, but whoever they are, they're sure damned prepared for this," the soldier on the other line shouted, "Their rifles are loaded with AP!"

            No. 12 patrolled the 13th floor of the NS-8 building on the south side next to the full-sized windows, keeping eye out for anything suspicious that was in the hallway. So far, there was nothing there. It was very astonishing how easy it was to take over NS-8. It took them less than ten minutes to bust in and round up all of their operatives, and now, they were being questioned one by one.

What he needed was a good shower when this was all over. _A lot more than that…_ he thought. He needed a new job. Running around and shooting people all the time was starting to bore him. He wasn't the loyal type of guy everybody thought he was. Quite on the contrary, actually. He was lazy, easily bored, and downright dying to get out of the Agency. He knew of course, they'd kill him upon discovery that he told _anybody_ of its existence. That was the unwritten, and yet most easily remembered rule: never tell anyone what you do for a living.

His plane of thought was disrupted by what he thought was the fractious noise of a lot of rope coming from behind him. He totted his AS-12 in the direction to which he spun, ready to shoot anybody who might have escaped from the 'ranches'. Nothing. The Knight scratched his head (or at least tried to, for he was coated from head to toe in ABSA armor), shrugged, and went on patrolling. He didn't even consider the possibility that the sound could have come from the outside until it was too late.

Soon enough, the sounds of his steady metallic footsteps were replaced by that of breaking of glass accompanied by the rattle of assault rifle fire. The latter, unfortunately, he was unable to hear, because the very source of its noise was aimed at his head. 5.56mm AP rounds pierced his helmet and splattered his brains all over its insides. Not long after, Echo Team of NS-1's Delta Force Division literally swung in on their nylon cables through the jagged frame, and landed onto broken glass, spreading out on command. It was time to take out the trash.

            Knight Vice-Commander Yu Tsubaka emptied the contents of his AUG at the oncoming soldiers in black suits, still unidentifiable at this point. There were at least half a dozen of them, coming in from the elevator hall. He'd received reports from the other team members that more were storming in from the stairwell and sides of the building. They were completely boxed in. The only way out of this shithouse, according to the map of NS-8 that they have procured, was the synthetic Digi-Gate that lay tucked away in Storage Hangar number nine, through which they could escape into the Digital World and request their own people to pick them up. Even getting away in that manner was also hardly feasible though, since according to their mole inside Network Security, ever since the launch of the so-called Virtual Digital Nexus, all synthetic Digi-Gates within their possession had had their D-Reactors drained. In short, there was no way out.

            He ducked behind a wall just as a volley of AP variation bullets from an assortment of weapons tore through one of his subordinates who took the exact same position he was in only a split second ago. He felt sorry, yet at the same time grateful, for those men who gave their lives just so he might live another few seconds in a firefight. Tsubaka literally ripped the magazine out of the Austrian rifle's chamber, tossing it away as he slapped in another one and secured it. He strafed out into the corridor, letting out potshots as he crossed the intersection into the opposite corner, others following. Some were lucky enough not to be hit by enemy fire. Others, however, weren't as blessed as them.

            Whoever these guys were, they were sure good at what they were doing. Tsubaka had studied strategies applied to American Strike Teams during his time at the Agency's Academy. Strangely enough, the tactics these people used were appallingly similar to those he had seen on the projections. Could this mean that they were American? Perhaps. That was when he ran out of ammunition.

"Put down all of your weapons, and come out with your hands on your heads!" a rough voice called out. Tsubaka complied rather partially, sparing his grenade belt. _No use for grenades if you can't reach them, anyway._ He thought as he stepped out, hands on his head.

            "That's good." Tsubaka recognized the leader of the group. He was the one in the Knight Division's Operations Log who protested against the gassing of Unit 17, bound from Tokyo to Sendai, and quit about a week later. Mitsuo Yamaki.

            The man was holding an M4A1 Carbine at shoulder level, aimed at the Knight's chest. From there he could see that his persecutor's uniform donned the insignia of the United States Army, more over that Special Division they formed designated for fast action international affairs: Delta Force. That was why their tactics were similar to those used by Americans… They _were_ Americans. Well, most of them, anyway. The least he could do was warn the others of their enemy's identity. Of course, that couldn't be done without him getting killed. _To die with honor is better than to live with shame_, some people said. Now that he thought of it, getting shot to death in the line of duty sounded much better than being taken prisoner by some haughty Americans.

            Thinking fast, he reached for his comlink, switched it on, and blurted out enough so that his Commander would hear, "They're Delta Force, Sir! They're Americans!" The obvious reaction from the other party was a hail of AP bullets that practically tore the man apart, despite his ABSA suit.

            "Come in, dammit!" was Reiji Konosume's Frustrated last attempt to get rid of the silence on the other end of his comlink. After Tsubaka's last transmission, notifying him that they were up against a Delta Force unit, they had been cut off completely. Only one conclusion could be derived from such a situation… Tsubaka was probably dead. _Rest in peace…_ he thought as Knights No. 7 and 23 burst through the Interrogation Room's door, apparently in frantic a manner as possible.

            "Sir, we've lost contact with all the other units!" No. 7 cried out, seemingly ready to cry.

            "It looks like we're the only ones left…" The Knight Commander replied coolly. There was only one escape plan he had in mind, one so daring and risky that surrender sounded far more appealing. Thinking quick, he picked up the bloody shell of a man who sat in the interrogation chair, miraculously still alive even after what appeared to be dozens of torture sessions. Konosume had at least spared his life for the time being. Now, he was going to be of one final, and perhaps, even fatal, use.

            "What are we going to do, sir?" No. 23 sounded somewhat panicky, although he didn't fidget around like No. 7, who looked like he could win an Olympic Gold Medal had there been a fidgeting competition for the honored global competition. For one of the Agency's most elite troopers, he sure didn't look the part, probably because he had lost his signature iron composition in the firefight against the American assailants, or perhaps the fact he had dropped his gun somewhere back in the hallway had completely trashed his already slim chance of survival.

            "Arm yourselves for a possible crossfire, and meet me at Hangar No. 9. On the way, I want you two to pick up a few things that we'll be needing." He pointed at No. 7, "You stop by Hangar 3 first, and pick up a tank of Liquid Plutonium."

            "What!?" Came the mentioned Knight's scared reply, "You want me to get some Nuke Water!?" Nuke Water was a common Agency term for those radioactive elements that were preserved in the liquid phase to avoid some very harsh consequences, not to mention the fact that it had been discovered in somewhere in the mid-twentieth century that liquid radioactive material was a highly efficient energy source compared to others. Most of the time, it was used as a fuel source for large machinery. Although there was the hazard of evaporation, not to mention the high probability rate of contamination due to spillage, it was relatively safe, since most samples of Nuke Water were contained in high-pressure tanks with scales reaching up to 50 kilopascals. Well, most organizations did so, anyway. The only way to get the liquid element out was by attaching a special hose-like instrument to the nozzle, beginning pumping afterward. The only problem was the fact that excrement of pressurized liquids obviously led to spraying.

            "That's right, Nuke Water. Make it two tanks if you can. We'll need every single gallon we can get our hands on if we hope to optimize the Digi-Gate's D-Reactor." Although an average HazMat tank used for containing Nuke Water was the size of your average one-gallon container, the pressurization compressed the material into ten percent of its original volume, allowing up to ten gallons per tank. That was, more or less, just about all they needed to charge up the synthetic Digi-Gate's D-Reactor and generate the said portal to last for a few brief seconds before it bogged down again.

            "I get it… are you thinking of getting us out with a Dimensional Jump?" No. 23 was the smarter and more logical of the two; that was certain.

            "Exactly." Konsume began to drag the man across the floor toward the door, "You have your orders. Good luck."

            "Sir?" No. 7 piped, "What are you gonna do with him?"

            "Human shield. Best insurance ever." That was the last thing said before the door closed. The two Knights shrugged at the last statement, and went to do their work.

Ventilation System, 15th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Friday, 2100 hours, Local Time…

            NS-8 Director Akira Sakamori crawled through the network of narrow shafts responsible for NS-8's breathing. He had Virgin map them and download the schematics into his palm pilot a few years ago, although he never expected that he'd actually have any use for them. He'd heard everything the Knight's leader had said, and knew exactly where he was going. The problems were, however, that they were wearing ABSA suits, and the fact that their cowardly leader was using Yamamoto as a human shield. He cursed the thought of losing another one of his—the network's—loyal subordinates.

            There had to be some way to stop them from getting away without risking Yamamoto's life… He didn't exactly know that much about this situation; such a circumstance had never befallen him before. "There's got to be a way…" His strategizing was disturbed as the comlink in his right ear chirped, "Yes?"

            "Mister Sakamori?" The voice belonged to the Matsuki boy. If he were to call at such a time, it must've been important enough to stall his counseling of Nonaka after the breakdown she experienced. He didn't know if it was due to the pressure of being held captive, the pain of losing a friend you considered closer than a sister, or both. One thing for certain, though, was that if she went through traumatically triggered psychosis, he would have to send her to NS-8's psychiatric ward for therapy, which would be a waste of time and an excellent agent. He saw that in her performance.

Somehow, he felt connected to her in a way, much like a father to his daughter or some similar relationship. Not that he was really her father, chances of which were near zero to impossible. He was much older than her, for crying out loud.  Besides, the only daughter he ever had had run away with his wife, an older woman, nearly thirty years ago, and that one was a blonde. 'Little Ruu', he used to call her, although her real name always slipped his mind. Up to this point, not even the intelligence section had been able to find them. It was one of the great mysteries in his life that perhaps, would never be solved. But that no longer mattered.

"Something you have to tell me?" Hopefully, the kid would understand that he wanted him to get to the point. Usually, this worked on anybody who visited him in his office, although that wasn't exactly the situation now, was it?

"Well, sir, some soldiers came here and busted us out… I think they work for—" his statement was disturbed by a muffled, "Give me that!" followed by the clatter of static for a few moments. Soon enough, reception returned with a new voice. One very familiar.

            "This is Yamaki. Where the hell are you?" Sakamori was taken aback. What was Yamaki doing here? Who were these soldiers that Matsuda was talking about? More importantly, who were they working for?

            "The question is: what are you doing here?" the director answered.

            "I brought in the cavalry to save your worthless ass. These guys are with NS-1's Delta Force Unit as per orders from Director Harvey Kytell. The man put me in charge, since I was the one who dialed 911, so to speak." That made sense. Although the other question was how did Yamaki learn about this predicament in the first place? Could he still have contacts in the Agency? Impossible. If he did, then why would he ask for information concerning Project: Toto-Con when he could just get it from his contact? The only rational explanation was that somebody told him.

            "How did you find out about our situation?"

            "Let's just say that a little angel told me everything…" the Hypnos head replied, "Now where the hell are you?"

            "In the vents…" Sakamori decided to let him in on his discovery, "Listen, I overheard the last of the Knights talking, they plan to escape by getting to Hangar No. 9."

            "Hangar No. 9? What—" Realization hit Yamaki as hard as a falling two ton brick, if such a thing ever existed, "They're going to use the synthetic Digi-Gate? But how? That thing was drained of its power reserves!"

            "That's why they're going to refill it." Was the matter-of-factly response, "What's more, they're using one of my men as a hostage!"

            "Oh that's just low! Okay, so what's your plan of action?"

            "Get your troops to position in front of Hangar 9, and once I get there, we break in and stop them in their tracks."

            "That sounds like a stupid plan."

            "Got any better ideas, Napoleon?" This name calling, of course, was sarcastic if anybody ever heard it, since Napoleon could most probably think of a much better way to stop the fleeing Knights. Of course, being a General who sent more than half a million soldiers to their deaths during his completely screwed up Russian Campaign, Napoleon would probably have had Yamamoto killed along with the other three, considering him a 'casualty'. Sakamori was definitely no Napoleon. He didn't want to take risks, although this approach alone was risky enough already.

            "Alright, you win," Yamaki finally surrendered, "What are you going to do anyway? They've got a human shield! All we've got is assault armor!"

            "I guess I'll have to take that chance." Sakamori said gravely.

            "Alright. Anything else?"

            "How's Nonaka?" at this question, there was another short burst of static, and a moment later, came a third voice… one that relieved the worried NS-8 Director of his somewhat small dilemma of fear for its owner.

            "I'm fine, chief. Something bothering you?"

            "No… nothing. Just glad to hear that you're alright… or are you just masquerading your true feelings inside that frozen palace of yours?" he heard the girl chuckle at that last remark. It was the first time he'd heard her laugh, even if it was just to herself. It reminded him of his own daughter, his 'Little Ruu' as he still referred to her up to date, the way she giggled when he said something that seemed funny to her. God bless her little soul, although it was hardly little anymore… she was probably in her late 30's now, having the time of her life with some bachelor she'd married, maybe having her own child... possibly even going through a midlife crisis. It was sad that his wife never gave him the chance to see his Little Ruu grow up to become a woman, or possibly even a mother.

            "Now why would I do that?" Rika answered through the comlink, "You know I don't do that when you're around."

            "But I'm not." He shrugged the idea off, "Anyway, just remember to stay out of harm's way, you hear me?"

            "Yes sir…" with that, the connection between the two earpieces subsided.

            Sakamori continued his odyssey through the vast spider's web that connected the many supposedly 'separate' rooms of NS-8. He would eventually end up at hallway 28, where the hangars rested, and kick the grill off, although that would do some substantial damage to his Italian-made shoe, which had cost him some several thousand yen. Such was the price of getting out of this labyrinth alive. Besides, he could have the shoe repairman fix it. Hopefully, the damage wouldn't be too bad.

Repairman… that reminded him of an American kid's show he saw before, 'All That'. It was a teenage gag show, and one of its skits was 'The Continuing Adventures of Repairman', with a self-induced (by the protagonist himself) echo at the –man. Simply put, when something was broken, Repairman would break into the room and hit it a few times with his wrench (or hammer, depending on how big it was), breaking it even more, and the person in distress would curse him for wrecking his or her already wrecked possession. They would also always ask him about the echo whenever he gave his name. Those shows always made him laugh, although he hardly considered himself laughable.

            He could now see the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. With a single kick of his trusty Italian leather shoe, the vent cover flew off its hinges and landed on the opposite wall. NS-8's director climbed out into the hallway, greeted by Yamaki's shades-clad glare, "It's about time you got here. We've been waiting for a quite a long while."

Hangar No. 9, 15th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku Tokyo

Friday, 2120 hours, Local Time…

            No. 7 had just finished loading the D-Reactor with its deadly fuel while No. 23 operated on the control panel that sat next to the ramp, which led to the currently empty ring, the actual body of the synthetic Digi-Gate. It pretty much resembled the Sci-Fi gadget known as the Stargate, an intergalactic portal discovered by archaeologists in ancient Egyptian ruins.

In the movie, the device was rigged to several US Government Supercomputers and was traversed by a team of soldier-explorers into the Abbydos Star System, where they faced off in a battle against tyrannical alien rulers accustomed to wearing snake armor and stun spears. This concept was adapted into the TV series Stargate SG-1, wherein the team, now officially called SG-1, discovered that there was an entire network of Stargates linking the universal community of planets, each one completely different from the other. Their new objective was to make contact with as many of the civilizations on the other side of the Stargate as possible.

            The only difference between the two devices was the fact that there were no ancient symbols with which to align with the cursors in an infinite combination possibility of seven each, only a smooth metal ring whose inside was lined with energy projectors that tore through the delicate fabric of reality and into the realm of the digital. Konosume stood at the ramp in front of the ring, holding Yamamoto securely in a headlock. The NS-8 operative was muttering curses to himself, spitting out wads of saliva-diluted blood every now and then.

            "How's it hanging over there, 23?" the Knight leader asked.

            "Just a little more…" No. 23 continued tapping on the control panel, finally pushing the big red button labeled 'Activate'. "Got it!" that was when a rifle round nailed him from behind. He dropped to the ground as Delta Force Soldiers led by Yamaki and Sakamori poured in through the door.

No. 7 panicked and started firing his rifle at random, hitting two or more Delta Force troops. Yamaki's quick reflexes and sharp shooting soon silenced the jumpy Knight's hysterical firing. It was a face-off. Network Security's forces (with the exception of Yamaki, of course) on one side, and what was left of the Agency's strike team on the other. Although just about every other gun in the room besides his own was aimed at him, Knight Commander Reiji Konosume had an edge over everybody else. He had a human shield, which he wasn't afraid to kill if he head to.

            "Put the gun down, Mack," Yamaki ordered, "This show's over."

            "Who're you trying to fool, you insubordinate coward?" Konosume was one of the Knights assigned to mug the infamous Unit 17, which derailed shortly after the Timed C4 Charges detonated, and he could still remember Yamaki's face, along with his argument with the team leader. "Can't you see? You can't kill me without killing this guy first!" he thrust the muzzle of his berretta into the side of Yamamoto's throat, teasing everybody else. Yamaki suppressed an angered growl.

            "Ha! See? All of your weapons are useless!" he had noted the slowly rising hum of the SDG's warming up ever since 23 had pushed the big button. It was substantially loud now. Everybody in the room could hear it. Soon enough, a gateway into the Digital World would open, and he would no longer need to burden himself with the near-deadweight he carried in the crook of his left arm.

            Sakamori's eyes widened as he saw the energy projectors crackle with life and simultaneously release beams of pinkish nuclear powered force at a specific point in the exact center of the ring. The rays collided, causing a slight shockwave to burst outward as a tear in reality slowly began to open. "The synthetic Digi-Gate!" As the tear neared the inner perimeter of the ring, a separate set of energy projectors unleashed a wave of controlling force that kept the portal's size in check, and at least several inches smaller than the ring's own diameter.

            "Well, it looks like I don't need this anymore…" the Knight Commander let go of Yamamoto as he kicked him into the crowd of soldiers, followed by a magazine's worth of potshots. The Delta force troops reacted by ducking immediately after catching the man. This brief moment he took advantage of and twisted around, diving into the tear and vanishing into the gigantic abyss of the Internet.

            "After him!" Yamaki began to make a run for the still open portal when Sakamori grabbed him firmly by the arm. The artificial Digi-Gate subsided with that split second that the older man had held the Hypnos director back. By the time Yamaki managed to wrestle his arm away, the tear was gone, the sound of the synthetic Digi-Gate's cooling evident in the lowering pitch it was working.

            "What are you doing!?" The younger man shouted, "He's getting away!"

            "Let him," was the stoic reply.

            "What!?" Yamaki retorted.

            "Let him run back to his masters and tell them that we're fighting… that we won't stop until the war is won." To Yamaki, this statement was a sign that his ex-handler was once again submerged into 'Full Delphic Oracle Mode', "They'll pay dearly for this outrage. The battle is won, Yamaki, but the war is far from over. And when it finally is, when we've finally won, they'll regret ever crossing me… they'll regret ever having crossed NS-8. I swear it by Yamamoto's grave."

            "I'm not dead yet, sir." Came a voice, weak from exhaustion perhaps. It was Yamamoto, being supported under the arms by two soldiers.

            "That's good to hear…" Sakamori answered, "At least I won't have to arrange two funerals for next week." the director looked at the soldiers who carried his subordinate for a moment, "Please take him to the medical ward." The two nodded and carried Yamamoto off.

            "Well, I've got to get back to work…" Yamaki started, "I've got lots of explaining to do."

            "Wait…" the NS-8 director reached into his pocket and took out a small electronic device, white, with a little red surrounding the perimeter of the screen, "I think you should take this. It's the least I can do to thank you for what you've done."

            Hypnos' chief took the gadget in his hand, studying it for a moment before realizing its identity, "This is Flamedramon's… My… D-Arc… But why?"

            "I've been meaning to give that to you for some time now. I just couldn't fit in any possible meeting between us into my extremely tight schedule. Now that you've come here, I guess I won't get any better chance to hand it over. NS-8 Researchers worked for half a decade on that thing, just to get it ready for you," He handed Yamaki a blue card, "I think it would be wise for you to use that later… when we're more quieted down."

            "What's in the card?" Yamaki's curiosity was now at its peak. He couldn't wait to see what would become of the card once he said the magic word and slid it through his Arc's reader. It had been a long time since he'd last done such a thing; the fact that using a D-Arc in unison with a modify card killed his partner resulted in a sort of anti-D-Arc Complex for him, not to mention the fact that he was still in the second stage of acceptance: Denial. That led to his usually bitter outlook towards Digimon and his supposed 'desire' to wipe out all those who entered the real world… with the exception of those being protected by Network Security.

This being given to him, however, was like being given a second chance… as though fate knew what he wanted and had delivered it to his doorstep. Yamaki knew that getting his Arc back had something to do with the redemption of his past, and probably greatest mistake of all: ceasing to believe in the 'magic' of Digimon. He knew there was something in that card; but just what it was, he had no idea.

            "That's a surprise you'll have to unwrap later. Right now, we have to fix this place up."

Director's Office, Agency Pacific Branch, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Saturday, 0649 hours, Local Time…

            Agency Pacific Director Shinji Kaira viewed the results of Konosume's debriefing. Apparently a Delta Force unit led by ex-Agency, ex-NS-8 operative, and present Hypnos Director Mitsuo Yamaki, rescued NS-8. Where the Delta Force Unit came from, though, he could only guess. This was going to be bad publicity to the other directors when the arranged meeting in a month or so at the designated location. Where exactly, he had forgotten, since he'd misplaced that e-mail somewhere in the Pacific Branch's Mainframe computer. Lucky that that NS-8 intruder hadn't gotten away with the Project: Toto-Con data disc. The gardener had found it the other day in the bushes during his routine trimming session. It was safe to assume, therefore, that until its designated launch time, which he heard had been advanced to a mere three months later, Project: Toto-Con was the best kept secret in the world.

            A knock on the door brought his shades-clad eyes up from his reading material as he glanced at the closed wooden portal, replying with a formal, "Yes, come in," before he got back to his work. The oak door creaked as several sets of footsteps marched inside, _I'll have to remember to get those hinges oiled_, he thought with a sigh. A pair of palms crashing down on his maple desk disturbed his reading, causing him to look up at his antagonist with a rather unpleasant expression on his face saying, "Do you mind? I'm trying to do some work done—" he cut himself off in mid-sentence when he realized who he was unleashing all of his negative qualities at.

It was none other than Jacob Marlon, the Agency's Chief Director, Top Dog, President, Head Honcho, Supreme Leader, Tyrannical Ruler, and every other synonym one could think of. "Jacob!" Kaira's expression became one of surprised delight at the person he saw, "And to what reason do I owe this visit?"

            "To fate, Kaira, to fate." Marlon was strangely in a very moody person today, and this could easily be proven by his somewhat pompous composure as he spoke. "Do you realize what you have just done?"

            "Look, Jacob, whatever it is, I swear I didn't do it! You've got the wrong man," the Pacific Director assumed that it was his making a deal with the Shitomo Clan of the Yakuza to smuggle their products into United States waters that Marlon was referring to, although he couldn't have been any more mistaken.

            Marlon, however, wasn't even done with what he was saying, "Don't you see that by sending three Knight Teams, THREE, on a suicide mission like that, you have made the greatest tactical error you could possibly ever make?"

            "But I—"

            "You did not even consider the possibility of outside factors such as former NS-8 operatives like Yamaki to lend a hand, did you!? Don't you ever forget that the Agency and Network Security aren't the only competitors in this game of Power Play!"

            "Is that the only reason you came here?" Kaira replied defiantly, "To reprimand me?"

            "No," Marlon calmed down, "That's not my reason." He paused briefly before inhaling deeply, "I came here to terminate your command of the Pacific Branch."

            "W…what!?" This startled the Pacific Director greatly, not to mention disturbed him. Marlon didn't say 'relieve', he said 'terminate'. Now any normal person who would take those two words and use them in a statement that meant to remove somebody's authority would probably mark them as synonymous, but a Director of the Agency, especially one who knew Marlon quite well, would know that those two words meant two different things. If Marlon said 'relieve you of your command', consider yourself lucky, because the worst that could happen to you was losing your job and getting your life ruined by the Agency's contacts in just about every government department that had something to do in your everyday life, like say, your credit card company.

In such a case, what usually occurred was that the relieved Director's debts would pile up on his doorstep about a few dozen times the number he had originally expected. Or, perhaps, in the case of a family, they would send somebody to adulterate his wife and probably convince her to divorce with said Director and marry the planted operative, all the while not suspecting a thing.

            However, if Marlon said 'terminate your command', you would consider yourself lucky only if you'd run away and hidden from the Agency the day before and stayed hidden for just about the rest of your life, because when he says 'terminate your command', he means to terminate a hell of a lot more than that. Unfortunately, for Kaira, he hadn't expected Marlon to just fly in from Los Angeles and tell him that he was being terminated.

            "Aw, come on, Jacob! Don't kid me like that!"

            "I'm not kidding, Kaira," Marlon said, drawing a silenced USP .45 from within his suit and aiming it at the mentioned Director's head. All Kaira could do was to tremblingly shield himself with his arms… although that would do no good at all. "Recruiting you into the Agency was the biggest mistake I had ever made in my entire life…" He pulled the trigger, sending a lethal dose of lead and gunpowder right between his target's eyes. "And I'll make sure I never make a mistake like that ever again," he muttered as he replaced the pistol into his suit's holster.

"You two," Marlon pointed at two of the agents who accompanied him to the office, "Get a body bag here on the double to dispose of this." The two nodded and went out the door, coming back soon after with the aforementioned item, which they used to get the fresh corpse down to cremation. The 'Bone Duster' as Marlon called it. "You," he looked intently at another Agency operative, "Get to the PA office and notify everybody that from this moment on, I'll be taking full and complete control over the Pacific Branch along with all its resources. Also tell them that I'll be overseeing the completion of Project: Toto-Con from hereon in." the said operative nodded and left. "And as for you," the Agency's Chief Director pertained to none other that Ryo Akiyama, who had witnessed the entire incident as though he were used to seeing co-workers kill each other, "I want you to call in all R&D teams working on Project: Toto-Con for a conference… one in which you'd be part of."

            "And how exactly could I fit into some conversation about complicated scientific mumbo jumbo?" the Tamer inquired.

            "You don't need to fit into the technical part," the superior replied as he set his derriere down on the comfy chair that a few minutes earlier had a dead man in it, apparently, trying to feel at home. "The reason I called on you, was because I can see that you have the potential to become what I recognize as the most powerful tamer on this planet. Because of what I see, I have reason to believe that you will do perfectly in your next assignment."

            "Which is?"

            "I want you to become guardian over Project: Toto-Con. It's not just some computer program as others rumor it to be. It is a living, breathing, Bio-Cyber-Digital Organism—a Digital Bio-Cyborg to put it simply—and in a month's time it's going to outgrow that Petri dish they've crammed it into. What it needs is somebody to take care of it as though it were his or her own self."

            "So what do you expect me to do? Put it in a rabbit cage, give it food and water twice a day, take it out for walks?" This was, of course, another one of Ryo's ideas for a joke, which would probably sound pretty funny if this were just a fanfiction and somebody with a light sense of humor were reading it. Marlon didn't find it very funny, though.

            "Actually, your job is far more simple than that. All you have to do is to find somebody to do, metaphorically speaking, all that you mentioned, and make sure that no harm comes to either."

            "Why does it have to be both of them? Can't I just pick a replacement if something happens to its caretaker?"

            "You won't understand why. Just pick a caretaker, and leave the rest to us. Once we give you the go signal, you have to become their Guardian Angel for the next two months. Is that clear?"

            "Yes sir," Ryo had absolutely no idea of why there was so much he wouldn't understand. At the moment though, he was more concentrated on what Project: Toto-Con probably ate, drank, or even if it did such a thing. Another thing that his imagination got away with was the question to what it looked like. Most importantly, though, was the choice he had to make… who could he possibly pick out from the billions of people on the planet to take care of one of its greatest accomplishments thus far? These thoughts ran through his mind as he stepped out of the door after Marlon had dismissed him.

END MONTH ONE

AN: Well, here it is, the fourth installment. I never imagined that it would grow so long, though. To be quite frank, I expected this to reach no more than around a measly 8000 words… turns out I've written exactly 12700. Talk about big… I hope this wasn't too long for you guys out there who still read me… Okay, now to the finer points in the story… I've changed Sakamori's age to 61, for certain plot reasons that are perhaps already obvious to you out there who think in advance. It's also probably the same thing with Yamaki getting his D-Arc back along with that surprise blue card. And what's this about Ryo becoming Project: Toto-Con's Guardian Angel? Hopefully, I made that one obscure enough to keep you guessing. More importantly, why in the hell did Kai Takamiya disappear from the picture? Why was all he got for this chapter a measly reference by Yamaki as a little angel? Well, don't ask me. I don't know either. But, don't worry, he'll appear in the next one, I assure you. That is, of course, if you still want him around.

Now that part with Rika who you canon people probably consider as a MAJOR OOC scene. Well, then, put yourselves in the shoes that she put on for this fanfic for a second. You're regarded as dead by the public, including your nuclear family who you've only begun to get really close to. You miss your Digimon partner who's been gone for a third of your life like hell, and was so close to you that some people even considered you two as a possible Yuri coupling. Your job is running around the digital world, deleting threatening programs/Digimon, which is pretty much, boring, because even if you 'died', it would only be a persona that was destroyed thanks to a sentient supercomputer. The only friend from the original tamers clique who knows your still alive and has gotten very close to you until the point that you've also been considered as a possible Yuri pairing has just been killed in action a few days ago. You're now stuck in one of your own organization's detention cells with the only other person from the original tamers clique who knows you're alive, with pressure building up from all the other problems mentioned above. He tries to start a conversation with you. What would you do? It's simple analogy, my friends.

Now some of you are probably thinking, Oh boy, this is it! This is the first sign! This guy's writing a Rukato! Well, I'd hate to burst your bubble, but no, I'm not bursting your bubble, and yes, this is going to somehow Digivolve—err evolve into a Rukato fic. As for a quick glimpse into the next chapter… well, to tell you the truth I haven't even outlined chapter five yet… heh, heh. But, here's a little excerpt from a draft I've done during my 30-minute vacant period yesterday…

"Digimodify!" The Russian Tamer cried as he slid the card through the reader, "Digivolution Plug-in S!" As with all kinds of class one digivolution, Agumon was seemingly devoured by red bands of Digital Evolution. As his partner transcended to a higher level of existence, Yuri Komanov eyed their opponent. Although shrouded in the mists of the Warp Field, his enemy was evidently humanoid. Well, humanoid save for his pale complexion and red eyes, the gigantic batwings that protruded from behind him, the reptilian tail, the fact that his arms were longer than his torso, the size of his hands, which were disproportionate to his arms, and, of course, the piece de resistance, the face of the devil.

            The hologram being emitted from his Red Power D-Arc told him all he needed to know, "IceDevimon… Virus Type Ice Devil Digimon at Champion Level… Its technique is Frost Claw." The NS-4 Tamer chuckled, apparently disappointed by, so to speak, what the cat dragged in. By this time, Greymon stepped into the warp field, ready to engage his opponent. "Get him, Greymon!"

AN: Okay, that was pretty much, very stupid and hanging there, but what the hell? That was all I could write down in 30 minutes, give or take. Most of you are probably thinking, what the hell is this guy doing with a Russian Tamer with an Agumon!? Is he some kind of Taichi clone? Of course not. Just so you know, Yuri Komanov is anything but a Tai clone. You'll see… You're probably wondering why the story jumps from Shinjuku, Tokyo, to Volkov Park in Moscow, but you'll see the connection soon enough. Now, as a final farewell (for this chapter, anyway), I give you a quote that came from a very good friend of mine, although for the sake of his remaining anonymous, I will have to code name him 'Rumiko' sniggers

            "I don't want to be lead, I want to lead!"


	5. MONTH 2: CHAPTER 5

AN: Okay, forget what I said about the second chapter. The last was really long… but forget about what I said about the last one too. You know why? Because the next chappie is here! Finally, after a long while… Heh, heh. Now, if you look at the first scene, and have read 'Matrix Evolution' by outlaw torn, you will notice that it is quite opposite to what happened there. Why? Because when I read it, I felt the great, unyielding, unwavering urge to write an IceDevimon-bashing scene… literally 'bashing'. After what he did to Rika (if you know what I mean), it serves him just right. Burn in hell, you sick, perverted Popsicle! laughs ala Doctor Evil

ProcrastinatorMan: Well, I don't know if you'll be able to kick my ass, judging from the fact that I'm a quite a few thousand miles away from your location… speaking of which, I don't even know where you live. Heh, heh… mind telling me where?

Skittles the Sugar Fairy: Well, if you gotta get on with your behind-the-schedule fic, you gotta! Takato's Adventures in a Lost World, right? I think I'll check it out sometime… and uh… about my being 'evil'? Why don't you check my bio next time before you drop by my fics. They don't call me 'The Master of Disaster' for nothing… well, at least that's what I call myself, anyway…

Newbi: I won't tell you whether you hit the bull's eye concerning the S/R situation or not, although I will tell you that you've hit the target board. As for too many deaths, why don't we check that with a body count? Let's see… there's those two guards Jeri killed, Jeri herself, that renegade algorithm (if computer programs count), Skull Mammothmon, those two guards at the basement level hallway, Tyranomon, just about every Knight with the exemption of their leader, and Shinji Kaira. Hmm… that is a lot. And there's gonna be more… I think. So, I'll take your advice and heighten the rating. As for the Ryo and Kazu thing, you just gave me an idea… sniggers, thinking about more deaths Nah… that would be too bad. Just keep on reading, and see what comes out of it all.

ShinigamiBlade: You sound just like me a couple of years back when I read Blackheart's 'Storm of War' (for references, check out the Vandread section). Trust me… I'm no good at writing… even after double checking, I've made so many mistakes I even considered redoing the whole damned chapter again. Now that would take months…

Disclaimer: Okay, let me put it straight to you this time… my name is Fizzy 13, but that does not mean that I'm 13 years old. Hell no! I'm 16. I write fanfiction in different categories depending on which I feel like writing about. My current category is Digimon, more specifically, season 03, which is my favorite, because it's the best damned season I've seen yet. Frontier I don't give a damn about, and neither do I concern myself with 01 and 02, because I don't think they give a damn about me either. That, most of you probably think, is a bad thing, because I am limiting myself to one damned season. Well, I don't have any complaints whatsoever about that anyway, so what the hell? Just one other thing to tell you: I am so damned infatuated with Rika Nonaka/Ruki Makino for I don't know the hell reason why. Not that I think I should get laid with her or anything perverted like that… infatuated more in the sense an author has with a character… basically because I think she's very interesting for a character (actually, I ALWAYS think that Ice Queens are interesting. Don't know why… maybe because they're so cool? Get it? Cool? Heh, heh). One more thing (damn, I'm starting to sound like Jackie Chan's uncle): for those of you who actually have sick crossbreeding fantasies about her, I recommend that you check out 'Matrix Evolution' by outlaw torn, which I think is based on a doujinshi (did I just spell that right?) of the same title. Not that I actually _like_ crossbreeding or anything like that… I just mentioned it for the sake of taking up space. One more thing (now I'm really starting to sound like Jackie Chan's uncle): I don't own Digimon Tamers or anything affiliated with it. The HONOR and GLORY all goes to Toei and Bandai for doing such a damned great job with it. The only things I own here are: first and foremost, my damned sub-zero megahertz computer, the concept of Network Security, the concept of the Agency, and thus, the characters affiliated with mentioned organizations. One more thing (Now you know how Jackie Chan feels when his uncle bugs him): I also own Hypnos… just kidding. 

MONTH TWO: PROGENY

Moscow, Beijing, and Tokyo International 

Volkov Monument, Volkov Park, Moscow

Sunday, 2147 hours, Local Time, One Month After Invasion of NS-8…

          Icy winds disturbed the usual silence of the white darkness that covered the scene. Naked trees swayed, dropping heaps of frozen crystals onto the colder ground snow as the gales went by. NS-4 Tamer Yuri Komanov clutched his trench coat tighter to himself in order to fight the biting chill that threatened to turn him into a Popsicle as he walked forth. It wasn't like he wasn't used to these kinds of temperatures, though. He'd spent over a year roaming the streets of Moscow, shunned by people by day, enduring the frozen temperatures by night. He had been an orphan for more than half his life, the situation leading to his current state being somewhat comical.

He and his parents were out on a trip to Moscow one afternoon, when a warp field containing two battling Digimon appeared - one of which killed his parents. Funny enough, the other, which he assumed to be the underdog of the fight, beseeched him for help. What could he do? He went with his heart as opposed to what his head was telling him: to get out of there as soon as possible and call the Militia. In the end, the two of them emerged victorious, and soon enough, a light appeared in midair like a beacon and descended into his palm, materializing into a Red Power D-Arc. He had no use for it at the time, of course, because the president had banned the importation of Digi-Battle Cards, hence, no cards to use.

          The two of them spent the next 16 months wandering without house, their home being wherever they went. Sleeping in alleys with the few homeless people out there, eating from scraps found in the dumpster, the usual things that homeless people did. All that changed however, when he first met Aleksander Tezansky, Director of NS-4. The man had raised him and Agumon as the children he never had… Indeed, Yuri never really could remember his parents that well; not at all, in fact. The past, he had left behind in order to embrace the present. Tezansky was now his real father, the only remembrance that he was of different blood being his retained surname. Now, though, even that no longer seemed to matter.

          He neared his destination, a cloud of digital origin, which Virgin had detected some 30 minutes earlier, engulfing the entirety of Volkov's Memento, meaning that it could now be possibly nothing more than a piece of scrap if that Digimon had been screwing around with it. That idea brought a thoughtful frown to his face as he ran his gloved hand through his spiky scarlet mane. His emerald eyes darted into the mist of the warp field… nothing.

          _There's only one thing left to do then,_ he thought as he brought out his Arc along with the deck of cards that NS-4 had given him, taking out one of his most commonly used. The Siberian winds howled in anticipation of another soul to carry as the Russian Tamer prepared to utilize the device that had been given of him by fate. "Digimodify!" he ran the chosen card through the reader, "Digivolution! Activate!"

          EVOLUTION…

          "Agumon Digivolve to…" as with most versions of the class one digivolution process, several bands of digital origin seemingly devoured Agumon, their color matching his power classification: red. His yellow skin peeled off to reveal his raw form, nothing but a wire frame of his original self. This basic figure was coated with a new surface, a new skin; one that was rougher, one that looked more powerful… Agumon had ascended to a higher level of existence, the name of which he announced proudly, "Greymon!"

          Yuri took another peek into the shrouds of the warp field… finally he could see something. It was nothing more than a silhouette, but he had enough experience with Digi-Battle cards and the real thing to be able to determine that its chassis was of the Devimon classification. What its power type was, however, he had derived from the fact that the temperature in the area was several degrees colder than usual. A peek at his D-Arc had confirmed his suspicions, "IceDevimon, Virus Type Ice Devil Digimon at Champion Level…" he considered this for a moment, "Its signature attack is Frost Claw," and chuckled, apparently disappointed at, so to speak, what the cat had dragged in.

          He'd heard of a similar incident that had occurred in Japan in, more or less, a little over five years ago, although the situation itself was completely absurd. Virgin had detected several D-Signals within the Shinjuku sector, although she dismissed them as glitches in her tracking system because of their continued phasing-in and phasing-out. It was practically too late to send a containment unit when she had finally realized her error and confirmed that there really was a Digimon running around in Tokyo. Apparently, the three Tamers involved had terminated it out of their own initiative. News reached him concerning one of those Tamers' recruitment into NS-8 several months later, almost immediately after the downfall of the D-Reaper. Why the United Nations had ordered all NS Cells to stand down during that entire half-year incident was still a complete mystery, even to the Executive Twelve.

          "You," Yuri called out at the figure within the mist, "Should know that by entering our realm without authorization, you have violated several laws that have been in function for the last 22 years!"

          "Human Laws, no doubt…" boomed a deep bass voice in response, "Laws which do not apply to one such as myself. Do you have any idea who I am?"

          It sounded more of a challenge than a question, and Yuri was beginning to lose his patience with this conceited program to the point that he was willing to delete him personally… even if those weren't his orders. Fortunately enough, they _were_ his orders. "You," he replied, "Are a felon who will be deleted very soon if you don't comply with the laws of this realm."

          "Hah!" the voice seemed to be provoked at what had been said of him, "I will make you eat those words of yours, human. You truly have no idea of who or what I am! And when you do, I will shove them down your throat and choke you with them!" The figure lunged forth, unimaginably swift, despite its enormous height of at least nine feet, and its practically non-aerodynamic-looking form, "Frost Claw!"

          In the heat of their verbal battle, both forgot about the third personality in the immediate area, who once again made himself known as he stepped in between them, catching the frozen claw between his own two, a highly successful interception if Yuri ever saw one. Greymon's inertia fought against the white demon's own, his body's full weight being pushed back by several inches, ever so slowly, for the next few seconds, until finally, his opponent's feet made contact with the snow once more. "If you wanna get to Yuri, you're gonna have to get through me first!"

          "That will be my pleasure!" IceDevimon eagerly roared as he renewed his effort to break through the reptilian barrier standing between him and his human prey. He'd heard of a similar occurrence with one of his own kind. Well, not exactly familiar, but only a little. The other one wanted a little girl to become his partner; he wanted this boy dead. Unfortunately for the other guy, he was deleted. He was going to make sure that he wouldn't follow suit.

          "I really could use some help here, Yuri!" Greymon beseeched his partner once again.

          The Tamer reacted by drawing out one of his favorite cards from the deck and used it, "Digimodify! Activate Beast Energy!" A moment later, he heard the cracking of something similar to bone… perhaps what was truly bone, but more probably just data that mimicked the said body part. That specific 'bone' data belonged to IceDevimon's offending hand. The snow-colored devil howled in pain as he was sent flying back several feet and into the warp field by Greymon's follow-up punch, landing in a pile of snow that went up in the explosion of his impact. That last blow had broken at least two ribs, which he clutched in frustration. It looked like it was going to be harder than that other situation.

          The Blue Element Digimon snarled as he rose to his feet, with the intention of retaliating with another Frost Claw attack. Intending to do so was as far as Greymon would let him go, though, because at precisely the next moment, he unleashed his signature finishing attack, "Nova Blast!" The giant fireball sailed into the warp field, clearing its mists as it zeroed in for the kill. IceDevimon could not react; he was paralyzed at the sight of the thing, which upon making contact with his form obliterated him into countless bits of data that Greymon had loaded into himself with what could not be described with words except for some non-existing vocabulary entry that meant 'several magnitudes greater than eager'. At that absorption, the warp field subsided, and radio traffic within the vicinity returned to normal.

          Yuri's comlink chirped, "Da?"

          It was NS-4's comm. officer, Mikhail Naridekno, "Agent Komanov, the Militia is headed in your way and will arrive at your location in ten minutes." NS-4, not to mention any NS Cell for the matter, had the authority to operate within the given jurisdiction, but never with any direct contact with operatives from other agencies present. They would not even risk posing as members of some stupid group for possibility of being checked with said agency and be found out as lying. The only solution was to move in, fix the problem, and move out before the locals get there. "Director Tezansky has something to tell you, so hurry up. Your escape route has already been downloaded into your palm pilot via satellite connection. Good luck."

          The Tamer checked his palmtop computer, and, sure enough, a map of Volkov Park had appeared in his inbox, the escape route marked in red. "Copy that, Headquarters. We'll be there in half an hour. Komanov out." By this time, Agumon had reverted to rookie level and was doing some kind of cross between the Siberian Steppes and jumping jacks, "Hey, let's go. You can do that at home."

          The dinosaur Digimon looked at his partner with watery eyes, "But Yuri, this is so much fun!"

          "Do you want to be caught by the Militia and interrogated?" Agumon remained silent, realizing the graveness of the situation, "Of course not. Now let's go." Yuri began to stroll in the direction of the said escape route, followed shortly by his yellow partner, apparently disappointed that he had to cut his jig for a while. The two vanished into the cold winter night, their tracks covered up soon enough by the descending flakes of cold crystals.

Director's Office, 14th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Tuesday, 0214 hours, Local Time…

          NS-8 Director Akira Sakamori eyed the sign on his personal terminal, which read, "Two Messages Received." It had been a long time since anybody had e-mailed him… ever. Well, nobody e-mailed him just to say hello… most came because of business matters mostly sent by fellow members of the Executive Twelve. Well, there was that one occasion around three weeks ago wherein Jeri's parents sent him a most interesting message. They thanked him for giving Jeri at least some experience with the real world. This was in reply to the message he sent them with the topic: 'Condolences', wherein he apologized for not being able to look after her properly. To think he was just starting to get close to that family, that was when tragedy struck. Of course, Jeri knew the risks she was taking when she entered the building alone. She had died while performing her duty, at least shedding some light on how important Project: Toto-Con was to the Agency, perhaps even to the world.

          He silently prayed to the gods that at least one of them wouldn't be of NS origin as he moved his mouse cursor over the link and clicked. "You know," a digitized female voice broke the silence, "One of them even has a video clip attached to it! Now wouldn't that be interesting to watch?" Alas, Sakamori's prayer had not been heard, for both senders were members of the Executive Twelve: Aleksander Tezansky of NS-4, the Eastern European NS Cell, and Felipe Santiago of NS-5, the upper South American NS Cell. Both messages were marked with the topic: Business as Usual, which the E-12 had agreed upon to be Network Security's cover topics for Operational Messages of great urgency.

          "Pick Tezansky's message first," Virgin chimed, apparently trying to help him out with his dilemma of not being able to decide which to choose, "It's the one with a video clip attached." For as long as he could remember, although Virgin's voice was that of a woman, she had the attitude of a child, which was probably a very strange thing given the fact that she was the most intelligent program in existence up to date. Not that Network Security had plans of having her replaced or anything. They had designed her with self-awareness, and thus, she was sentient… she learned… she had a sense of thought… she had a mind of her own. How could one tell? The criterion for differentiating thought from programming was given away by British mathematician Alan Turing around the late 40's. If one could carry out a prolonged conversation with a computer without being able to distinguish between its replies and those that a man might give, then the computer _was _thinking, by any sensible definition of the word. Virgin had obviously passed the Turing test with frighteningly flying colors.

          "If you say so…" Sakamori clicked on the first link. The message was simple, "Whole message is in attachment." He scrolled down, locating the link to the video message, which he clicked immediately.

          At once, the screen was filled with the scenery of the NS-4 Director's office, Tezansky's face itself in the middle, "Comrade Sakamori, it is good that you take this message into consideration, for I am in most dire need of assistance from your NS Cell. NS-4 Intelligence Section has determined that Agency's Directors are having meeting somewhere in Moscow sometime within week. That is to say, before weekend here in Russia." The Russian's face became grave. Apparently, the situation his NS Cell was in now definitely needed intervention. "However, due to Comrade President's Decree to super-upsize Mother Russia's involvement with Global Internet Community, NS-4's resources are focused there to (the) point that we were unable to locate time and place of Agency Directors' meeting, although, we did manage to get an operative to try to determine them. Unfortunately, his search is without success. Listen, Comrade Sakamori… I need you to send help for Yuri. Help him find time and place of Agency Directors' meeting. I don't have to tell you how critical situation that befell us is, not only to Network Security, but to security of entire world itself. Hopefully, at last, we will be able to determine identity of Agency's Directors, and from there, slowly destroy them. May spirit of Mother Russia guide your decision, Comrade. That is all…" The message ended as abruptly as it began.

          "Well, _that_ was an SOS if I ever saw one," Sakamori's invisible companion commented. Virgin didn't exactly have a physical 'center' of consciousness; although if Sakamori would mention its location in _that_ sense, he would say that it lay within the infinite bounds of the network. Network Security R&D teams were ambitious enough to try to solidify that hypothetical 'center' of consciousness. For the past decade or so, they have been developing, under the Executive Twelve's supervision, a digital body for Virgin. Its structure was similar to that of your average Guardian Algorithm, although its capacity was more than enough to hold her entire consciousness within. The only setbacks included the fact that she would no longer be capable of multitasking, i.e. managing all NS Cells' technical detail simultaneously.

          "Definitely…" Sakamori himself was very excited about this. His mind and heart were unanimous in their decision to go with Tezansky's request, "This is the big break we've been waiting for ever since we discovered the Agency… a chance to behead the beast…"

          "Of course, the Agency would look much funnier if it were a chicken," Virgin piped a joke, "I'd be able to see it running around without a head for quite a long time…" She probed the trivia she had managed to gather from the Internet thus far, "Did you know, that the record for the longest surviving headless chicken was four years?"

          "What?" Sakamori wasn't really paying that much attention, since he was reading the message sent by Santiago.

          "It was in Charles County, Virginia, I recall," the greatest sentience in the network rambled on, "Its name was Mike, and around 1987, he was scheduled to be beheaded for butchering. His owner chopped off his head, but his brain, and pretty much most of his spine had survived and somehow managed to get down into his neck. Farmer John – let's just call him Farmer John – was amazed at that, and so continued to take care of Mike instead, by injecting nutrients and water into his system via hypodermic needle. That had to hurt. The same thing went about every day, until some time in 1991, Mike's headless predicament killed him. Do you know how?"

          "How?" the NS-8 Director instinctively answered, not listening at all, because of the piece of information he'd just arrived at concerning a Pan-Digital Converter. This device, according to what Santiago wrote, was capable of transmogrifying matter's composition into data and back again. The bad news? If it fell into the wrong hands, whomever those hands belonged to could easily smuggle whatever dirty shit he or she had into any national border simply by using the Internet as a medium. The worse news? Santiago mentioned that the Agency had successfully developed such a device within his jurisdiction. The good news? He'd had a High-Risk Retrieval – HRR – Team sneak into the Agency's Brazilian branch and steal it. The point of the message? Because NS-5's labs were incapable of examining such a complicated device (NS-5 and NS-6 were relatively small and underdeveloped compared to the other NS Cells), Santiago was compelled to send it over to NS-8 for a far more precise dissection. It was a rendezvous.

          "Being headless means being eyeless, right?"

          "Right…" he deleted both messages and considered who he could possibly send to do such jobs.

          Virgin continued her trivia talk, "And being eyeless means being blind, right?"

          "Right…" Sakamori had figured who to pick (at least he thought so. He'd have to consult with Pan about this), and was about to reach his phone in order to contact Aya Sazaki – NS-8's resident super genius and Optec Supervisor – that he might be able to commission her to start working on the technical quota of the following two operations.

          "Well, being blind, Mike wasn't exactly able to see the oncoming 18-wheeler truck that sped down the highway he was running around on, and… got run over."

          "Too bad for him…" he brought the receiver to his ear and dialed the number of NS-8's operator. He was greeted with a cheery, "Good evening sir, how may I help you?" Evening? It was 2 AM in the morning… somebody had to get that operator's shift changed, "Get me Aya Sazaki's quarters. I need to have a little chat with her."

          "Copy that, sir." The operator chirped, "Please wait for a few minutes." Piano music that was common to 'waiting' line status began to play, allowing the NS-8 Director to focus more on his immaterial girl.

          "Well, Mike's memory is still celebrated to date with the annual Charles County Mike the Chicken Beheading Day, with games, games, more games, and of course, fried chicken." Virgin cracked at that last fragment, letting out a semi-hysterical laugh similar to that of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The gifted composer, besides being a genius, had a very strange laugh similar to a witch's cackle.

          Sakamori sighed as he eyed the surveillance camera in the top corner of the room left to the sliding door, supposing that as how she was 'looking' at him at the time, "Listen, Virgin. I have no time for your jokes right now. I have to arrange for the next operations. Please understand that these are matters of Network Security."

          The Virtual Digital Nexus seemingly retreated from Sakamori, apparently throwing a silent temper tantrum within the confines of her realm. He breathed a sigh of relief as the music stopped and the sound of a receiver being picked up was heard, "Aya Sazaki speaking, what's up?"

          "It's Sakamori, Aya. How're you doing today?"

          "Oh, hi, chief!" the voice on the other line was young, no older than pubescent at the most. True, Aya was only 14, but she _was_ a genius. She belonged to the rare breed you could only find on television such as Dexter, or Jimmy Neutron. They had recruited her eight years earlier, when the results of her Grade 1 IQ test spiked above most others in Tokyo with a whopping 198. Now, most people would look at somebody with an intelligence quotient of above 160 and regard him or her as a real nutcase, but upon meeting her in person, Sakamori knew that she was capable of being of great use to NS-8's Optec Division. A few years of training, some familiarization with NS-8's equipment, and a whole lot of lectures later, she was locking herself up in the Optec Center, making all sorts of 'Plain Sight' gadgets. "What's up?"

          "I need you to work on some equipment for a High Risk Courier Operation, and a Maximum Risk Eavesdropping Operation. Think you can do that in less than twelve hours?"

          Aya was the kind of person who spent most of her days locked up in the Optec Center, sleeping only when absolutely necessary. Most of the time, sleep lasted for only two to four hours, five if she was lucky. Yet even so, she gained as much energy as though she had slept the full eight that growing teenagers needed. Why? It had been proven in the late 90's that the energy taken from level one sleep – that is to say, dreamless sleep – was equivalent to the energy taken if you just lied down on the couch, watching some TV.

What was the reason? Most energy from sleep was replenished during the REM – the dreaming – phase of one's rest. It was the dreams that replenished one person. How did Aya dream that much in two hours? Simple. She took hallucinogens before hitting the sack. Medically speaking, that was bad for her health, but it was much better than taking coffee, which stunted her growth.

          Aya didn't go to school. She had all she needed to know in NS-8's vast library, which contained all the ABCs one needed to finish preschool all the way to any course in college. She read at her own pace, and was currently into Quantum Physics, which was, so to speak, very advanced for a 14-year-old girl. "Just gimme a couple of hours for shuteye, and I'll be making the perfect toys for those classes of jobs, sir."

          "Alright," the NS-8 Director answered, "Virgin will wake you up at the appointed time. How are your parents doing?"

          "Oh, you know mom and dad, always sticking to their jobs. What can I say? They keep on e-mailing me to sleep early, take my vitamins, stay healthy, the usual parental stuff that they tell you when you go to a week's worth of summer camp." Aya's parents worked within Hypnos' Programming Division, and pretty much knew what she was doing, spending most of her days locked up inside a 'bank'. They visited her regularly, at least once a week… daily at most, being what parents were supposed to be: annoying.

          "Right…" Sakamori paused, thinking of what to say, "Well, be a good girl now, you hear? I have to go home and get some sleep myself."

          "Okey-dokey. Night, chief."

          "Goodnight, Aya." At that, both put their receivers down. He definitely needed some sleep. "Goodnight, Virgin," he said almost absentmindedly to the still active video camera as he placed his Personal Terminal on standby, not knowing that she was already sobbing at what he'd told her earlier as she tried to solve a recently discovered anomaly she dared not mention to the Director for fear of being reprimanded any further. Indeed, Virgin was, so to speak still a virgin (no pun intended) when it came to serious matters such as Network Security situations.

Sakamori, however, did not consider this at the moment. He was too tired to think of anything of that magnitude or higher. He left his office, passing the few night shift operatives, who greeted him cheerfully as he went for the elevator hall on the south side of the building. The glass windows that broke from Delta Force's dramatic entry had been replaced a few weeks earlier, the excuse being… well, Sakamori didn't give any excuse to the repairmen. He just told them to get their jobs done.

          Upon reaching the basement parking, he boarded his dark blue Nissan Exalta, bade the guard farewell, and drove off into the night, his destination being composed of one single syllable word: Home.

School Grounds, Iyamoto High School, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Tuesday, 1249 hours, Local Time…

          "You can't be serious!" Takato Matsuki practically shouted at the vest-clad boy sitting opposite of him, "Your family's being recalled by the Chinese government!? That's just crap! They're the ones who deported you in the first place, right!?"

          Henry Wong brought his fingers together, elbows resting on the table as he thought of something to say to his best friend. The cream and green rabbit on his shoulder shrugged as he smiled the kind that would just get a girl to hug him to death, saying his favorite catchphrase, "Momentai, Takato! He'll be alright as long as he's got me!"

          "Uh huh…" Takato had almost forgotten that Terriermon was back from the Digital World. Up to date, Henry still hadn't told him how the little rabbit had gotten back, and he didn't think that the guy was ever going to tell him. "So what's going to become of me, then? Practically everybody I could relate to is either dead, or out of my life! You're the last!" Goggle boy (who hadn't worn his goggles since the D-Reaper's defeat) was, of course, lying, in the sense that Henry wasn't the last person he could relate to. Well, he was the last until Takato had rediscovered Rika at NS-8. Both boys had attended Jeri's funeral and wept. Most of the people from NS-8 who knew her had attended too, namely Sakamori, Yamamoto, and… he thought he'd caught a glimpse of Rika somewhere in the back of the crowd, apparently trying to stick to her official status of being deceased. Hopefully, Henry hadn't noticed him looking in her direction.

          "Well, look at it this way, Takato," the Chinese Tamer finally spoke, "Even if you are, physically speaking, alone, I'll still be with you… in phone calls."

          "You're gonna spend money on international calls just to keep me company? Thanks, man. You don't know how much this means to me." He was going to need a lot of those calls to keep him sane because of the peer pressure of being alone in school. Everybody would estrange him, because they weren't at his level. Not to mention the fact that he was going to be pretty busy with his job at NS-8.

For the past month, they'd logged him into Virgin twice, locked him in the training facility where they used some kind of 'downloader' to cram complicated martial arts moves into his head, and taught him how to assemble and use a gun. Why the use of a downloading device on him? The instructor believed that once a person's mind was set on something, like say, Kung Fu, his body would follow. Takato had been practicing at home with an old punching bag he'd found in the closet. Unfortunately, on one occasion, he was so into developing his spin kicks that he broke it open, the stuffing spilling out and dirtying his room's floor. His father had him clean the whole mess up. "From now on," he could remember his old man saying, "Practice your fancy-pansy moves at the gym!"

          "Hey, no problem." Henry took a bite out of his sandwich. Apparently, he didn't like the idea either, since, so to speak, those damned Chinese politicians were the ones who kicked them out in the first place. If that was the situation, then why were they being called back? Besides that was the strange fact that it wasn't an employee of the Chinese Embassy who approached his father, but some mysterious guy in a black suit who worked for some unknown party. "There's one thing that bothers me though…"

          "What?"

          Wong shook that disturbing thought away, "Never mind. It's nothing…" He thought for a moment, "Have you ever experienced suddenly being talked to by some man in a black suit?"

          "Seriously?" Takato asked of the kind of response, "Actually, yeah. Last month. Thought the guy worked with Hypnos or something… turns out he works at the bank."

          "The fat guy who recruited you into Nikamura Crediting?" Henry inquired doubtfully, "I just don't get why you took the job, anyway. I mean… all they pay you are the extra simoleons that just don't fit into their vaults!"

          _If only I could tell you what I really did at that 'bank'_, Takato thought. It was sad that the Chinese government was recalling Henry's family. He was even planning to convince Sakamori to recruit him into NS-8. Sadly, that petition was hardly feasible, since, as much as Takato thought about it, the only reason he'd been recruited into NS-8 was to replace Jeri. That was, more or less, all that he was to NS-8… a replacement. "Let's just say that banking is a lot more interesting than what I first thought."

          Henry suddenly felt that he'd seen this scene somewhere before. He just couldn't remember where. Was it a case of déjà vu, or did he really see it sometime ago? He thought of the last statement. The word that stood out the most? 'Banking'. That was when it hit him. He had seen this scene before, only it wasn't between the both of them. It was on the TV screen. It was part of one of the early 21st century's most popular spy shows: ALIAS. Henry suddenly laughed, his best friend being taken aback for a second. _I must be watching too much TV… I mean, for a second there, I even suspected Takato of being a spy!_

          "You okay, Henry?"

          "Yeah… I'm fine. Just thinking about some stuff."

          "If you say so…" Takato gulped down what remained of his lunch, mainly, another very _ordinary_ sandwich that his mother had made. Perhaps he should ask her to start making him those Guilmon rolls again. He couldn't help but close his eyes and savor the memory of how those things tasted, not to mention the memory of the person – digimon rather – whose image they were created in. That was when his Nokia 3315 rang in signal of text. To be more specific? Special Tone, Ring Volume Level 5. He quickly reacted, ramming his hand into his khaki's pocket and fishing it out. "One Message Received. Excuse me for a sec…"

          "Let me guess… Joey's Pizza?" That line was another one fished out from the ALIAS series. Whenever the CIA, via phone call, contacted the lead character, they always posed as Joey's Pizza; and she would always respond by telling them it was a wrong number. Henry was of course, joking. He had, however, absolutely no idea of how close that joke was to the truth.

          "No… it's just my boss. I gotta get into my shift by 4 PM. Accounting sector."

          "Sure," the Chinese tamer continued his joke, "Then he's gonna send you to Taiwan or something in order to steal the plans for some top secret weapon they've been cooking up."

          "Hah, hah. Where'd you pick that up? James Bond or something?" The bell rang at that instant, signaling that there were only five minutes left in the lunch break. Five minutes to pack up and get back to the classrooms. "What's our next period again?"

          Henry crumpled his sandwich bag and threw it into the nearby garbage bin, "World History… Da Vinci's inventions, I think. You finished with your assignment?"

          Takato slapped his forehead as he stood up from the table, "Damn, I knew there was something I forgot at home!"

          Wong could only suppress his chuckle as Terriermon jumped onto Takato's shoulder and patted him on the head like a boy does his dog, saying, "Momentai, Takato! Look at the bright side. At least Mister Toroyama's on leave and his substitute is on campus."

          "And who might that be?" Hopefully, it wasn't the teacher he'd always feared. The one teacher who struck fear into the hearts of all the students at Iyamoto…

          "Mister Kuruma!"

          "Damn…" He _was _the one. If he was going to have to spend the next three hours with him, then he should be prepared for a long sermon on how to be more efficient in their classes. _That's life…_ he thought as he picked up his bag and headed for the classroom with Terriermon at his side, Henry not far behind.

Briefing Room, 14th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Tuesday, 1556 hours, Local Time…

          Akira Sakamori sat at the head of the rectangular briefing table, eyeing the stocky, bearded man sitting opposite of him, "So tell me, Pan. What have you been doing these days?"

          "Not much," NS-8's Deputy Director replied, "I don't have too many affairs to go around with, what with you and Virgin taking on practically all of the situations that need to be handled." He tapped on the touch screen terminal in front of him, initiating a game of pinball at music and SFX level zero. The briefing room's table was long enough to accommodate up to ten people, heads included. Each seat had a corresponding touch screen terminal, for easy display of information, although, for the sake of attention to the head, where Sakamori usually sat during briefings, there was a big screen terminal for better view. The two ends of the table also had scanners for miscellaneous scanning purposes.

          "I see…" The NS-8 Director brought up a topic that had been disturbing his mind for some time now, "I only gave you two days of leave last month: Wednesday and Thursday. You didn't come at all that Friday when the Agency's forces attacked. It was as if you knew—"

          "Now don't jump to conclusions just like that, Akira!" The bearded man cut him off, "You of all people should know that I'm one of your most loyal men. I tell you, I was sick! I even gave a medical certificate from Tokyo City General!"

          "The certificate said that you were infected by a _slight_ case of influenza; a _slight_ case," Sakamori stressed, "You could still come to work even with such a problem. Is there any other excuse you want to give me before I send you to Isuzu for Polygraph testing?"

          Taberuni Pan reached into his suit and took out a sheet of paper, upon closer inspection of which, was a prescription dated Thursday about a month earlier. "I was on the way to the hospital when I passed by Matsuda's school. The doctor gave me this," he placed it on the scanner, the automatic distribution system sending the image to every terminal on the table, including the large screen terminal at the front of the room.

          "It's a prescription…" It was signed by one of TCGH's top MDs. Apparently, Pan was infected that time with some kind of new strain of influenza that resulted in what appeared to be a cross between rheumatic fever and your common cold. Rheumatic fever was an ailment that if not treated immediately, which the doctor did, would kill its host by destroying either the kidneys or the liver, both vital organs to any human body. A respective drug was prescribed, as well as a week's worth of rest. "I'll let you go for now, Pan, but remember: I do not want this kind of shit to happen ever again. I've had the thought of your being an Agency mole playing across my mind for weeks!"

          "Sorry to have worried you like that. I guess I should be more responsible."

          "Definitely." That was when the doors slid open, several people stepping inside and taking their seats. Sakamori turned his attention to the redhead who sat next to Pan, giving her a nod as he addressed everybody else in general, "Good afternoon, everyone. I expect you all understand why I called this meeting today. This is probably one of the biggest Network Security situations since our foundation over half a century ago."

          Agent Hiroshi Yamamoto spoke up, "So what's this about, sir?"

          The NS-8 Director cleared his throat as he began the briefing, "First of all, I would like to introduce you to our new transfer from our post at Osaka, Agent Yusuke Shinigami." The respective operative stood up, bowed, and gave the usual word of flattery of what an honor it was to serve at NS-8's Headquarters itself. "Speaking of which, I would like to tell you, Nonaka, that he will be your partner for this operation." Rika stood up to object, but an intervening hand ordered her back into her seat, "I understand that you prefer to work alone, but I cannot think of anybody else who can show Agent Shinigami the ropes. You see, he's just graduated from the academy and was transferred here due to his unusually high performance."

          Rika Nonaka crossed her arms; apparently back into Ice Queen mode as she shut her eyes, mumbling something about why Sakamori had to pick her. When she opened them again, she took one look at everybody in the room, an especially long one at her boss, and sighed, saying, "Alright, I'll do it. What's my mission about anyway?"

          "Don't worry," Sakamori assured, "This one's going to be a real pushover. How does an HRC operation sound?"

          "Depends on the specifics of the operation itself: the five W's, get it?" What, When Where, Who, and Why. These were the five W's or specifics of most operations. They were as general as they could get. Details were deeper than that.

          "Pickup of a Pan-Digital Converter, tonight at 9 PM, at the Tokyo International Airport. The operatives are from NS-5, sent to deliver the device, which was stolen from the Agency's Brazilian branch by an NS-5 HRR Team. They're delivering it to us in order that our labs might be able to analyze the Pan-Digital Converter more accurately, since the South American NS Cells are, more or less, underdeveloped in terms of laboratory technology compared to ours."

          "And I have to take _him_ with me!?" the former Tamer retorted, "I can do that by myself!"

          "You need someone to cover your back." The NS-8 Director stated matter-of-factly, "You would be doing all of us a favor if you just obeyed. Besides, I am now giving you a direct order: Take Agent Shinigami with you on this operation." He could see how peeved Rika was at this order, but she already had agreed, right? Indeed, she had. "That's it for your operation, Nonaka. Stand by for your Optec briefing. In the meantime, I have another mission in mind for Yamamoto and Matsuki…" he scanned the room but found no trace of the aforementioned Tamer. "Speaking of which, where is the boy, anyway?"

          Yamamoto racked his brains for the correct answer, which came to him about an hour ago, "Called me a while ago saying he'd be late. Sounded like he was in a fix with his teacher or something…"

          That was when a certain dirt-haired teenager in a blue shirt and slacks came in, backpack slung over his shoulder, "Sorry I'm late, guys. Had a little trouble with my teacher… Did I miss anything?"

          "Nothing of importance to you Agent Matsuki," Sakamori noticed Rika's eye twitch, "Take a seat." When he was sure that Takato had indeed, taken a seat (next to Rika, to be exact), he started with another introduction, "Before I forget, Agent Matsuki, this is our new transfer from the Osaka branch, Agent Yusuke Shinigami."

          "Pleased to meet you." was the statement that came from Shinigami's mouth.

          "Same here," Takato replied.

          "You wouldn't happen to be that kid who helped save—"

          "Why is it that everybody knows that I helped save the world!?" the former Tamer complained sarcastically.

          Rika, apparently, played along with the joke, "Well at least you're a celebrity."

          Sakamori cleared his throat again, trying to get their attention as he held out his hand to place that attention on a young blonde girl sitting next to him, her long hair reaching the back of her waist, "I would also like you to meet the head of our Optec Division, Miss Aya Sazaki. Aya, this is Takato Matsuki from downtown Shinjuku. I'm sure you've heard of him."

          "You're telling me that the person in charge of our gadgetry is a little girl?" the former Tamer asked in disbelief.

          "Well then you're telling me that the guy who once saved the world looks just like an Average Joe?" she snapped back.

          "Stop it, both of you." Yamamoto butt in, "We're not here to start a fight, you know. We've got serious business to attend to."

          "Agent Yamamoto is right, Goggle-head," the redhead sided with the older operative, "Carry on, sir."

          "Thank you, Nonaka. Now, where was I?" Pan whispered something into his superior's ear, "Ah, yes. As of 0215 hours this morning, I received a video message from Aleksander Tezansky, Director of NS-4, and a very good friend of mine."

          "For those of you who aren't familiar with NS-4," the stocky Deputy Director intervened, "It's jurisdiction includes the entirety of what used to be the Soviet Union, along with Eastern Europe."

          "Tezansky's Intelligence Section has stumbled upon what is perhaps the biggest find concerning the Agency ever since our first encounter with it. Apparently, its directors are having a meeting somewhere in Moscow sometime within the week. Unfortunately, because President Vezhirov, is, as you know, doing a mass upsizing of Russia's involvement with the Global Internet Community, NS-4's resources are currently concentrated on monitoring that growth spurt to the point that they can't even do so much as determine the exact time and place of that meeting. Hence, the reason why he called me up last night. Tezansky wants me to send in a team to help his 'lone wolf' search unit to locate and monitor the meeting before it's too late. We only have until Friday to do this. A discovery like this comes only once in a long while."

          "So who exactly are you sending for this operation, Akira?" Pan inquired.

          "Yamamoto, I trust that you will take good care of Agent Matsuki on this trip." The NS-8 Director answered his assistant's question indirectly, expecting the direct object of his statement to give out some kind of violent reaction. He did.

          "Wait a minute… you're sending us to Russia?" Takato quipped, his face twisted into a nervous wreck, "For how long?"

          "For the rest of the week. Don't worry, your schoolwork has been taken care of. As of 1200 hours today, I contacted you principal, notifying him to have you excused the rest of the week due to your participation in an upcoming international history competition being held in Leningrad."

          "You 'notified' my principal? What's that supposed to mean!?"

          Akira Sakamori smiled shrewdly at the boy as though he'd beaten him at chess in less than five moves, "NS-8 has officers planted in schools where Tamers and former Tamers study, moreover every agency in the Pacific, including the Department of Education. Your principal just happened to be a good friend of mine. He's already made it official. But just because you've been excused doesn't mean that you can neglect your studies wantonly. Both Shiro and I have agreed on this." Shiro, Shiro Kanzaki to be exact, was the name of Takato's principal. He was, more or less, an average-looking person; with nothing whatsoever that could possibly give away his position at NS-8. "So, to make up for your duties at NS-8, each excused school day spent for NS-8 operations will be deducted from your summer vacation."

          "You've gotta be kidding me!" the teenager retorted, "That's insane!"

          "Education plays a great role in every major society today, Agent Matsuki." Pan commented nonchalantly, "If you don't pass so much of your education as High School, you won't make it at all in real life."

          "Your plane departs at 2030 hours tonight, you two. Business Class plane tickets have already been reserved for the two of you on flight number D69BJ, departing for Beijing," Sakamori smiled again at the surprised reaction that hearing the flight number elicited, "Which, as you probably know, will be the plane that Mister Wong's family will be taking on their migration to China. Consider it a friendly offering. I know how close you two are."

          "So where do we go from there?" Yamamoto asked, clearly wanting to get the point.

          "After you get off at Beijing International, and say your goodbyes to the Wongs, proceed to the ticket booth. You will receive tickets booked for flight number H13MC, heading for Moscow in two hours. At which point, you will rendezvous with your NS-4 contact, Yuri Komanov, 17 years old, born in Leningrad, 1990. First encounter with the digital would be in October, 1996, when his parents were killed by a wild Gizamon. Met and became Tamer for a Class Red Agumon around the same time. Was recruited and adopted by Aleksander Tezansky about a year and a half later, and trained to specialize in various operations such as HRR, MRE, FFA, and RDC." Takato didn't understand what most of those acronyms meant, but whatever they were, they must be extremely risky. "I'm sure you people would get along very well, seeing as you are, more or less, in the same age group. Miss Sazaki will be briefing you on Optec. That is all."

Business Class Compartment, Flight D69BJ, Tokyo International Airport

Tuesday, 2015 hours, Local Time…

          _Now, see this watch? It's not really a watch_, Aya Sazaki's voice rang in the young boy's mind as he looked at his new Swatch, checking the time. _It is actually a micro cam launcher and control device. Each mainframe control cylinder can turn the selected micro cam up to 90 degrees in the respective cylinder's area of effect, i.e. the direction where it's facing._ Takato Matsuki looked over to the opposite side of the cabin, where Henry and his family sat, having what he assumed was some family talk. He glanced at his watch again, recalling more about that _long_ Optec briefing. _Where are the micro cams, you ask? Look inside the battery compartment. It might look like your average quartz battery, but push this little trinket here and… viola, a compartment containing not one, not two, but four state-of-the-art hyper-sensitive micro cams capable of X-ray vision, wall penetrating audio perception, and a zoom capacity of up to 500 times normal! _

_And all you have to do to launch them, is set the timekeeper to 0000 hours military time. A gas operated – I know, it doesn't look like it contains that much gas – propulsion system will jet those cams up to fifty feet in any direction regardless of wind speed. Don't worry, their adhesive bases will stick them onto any surface at all, porous, non-porous, dry, wet, etc. Now if you turn this other switch here… you can now switch to cam mode, where you can monitor the selected camera – number of turns equals consecutiveness of cam launch i.e. three turns switches to third camera launched – through your timekeeper. To zoom in? Push down on the same cylinder. The longer you push, the closer the zoom. Now all you have to do to zoom out is do… the… opposite… Newton's first law of motion, baby! Every action admits an equal opposite reaction. That's about all you gotta know about this little gizmo here. Any questions?_

"Something bothering you?" Hiroshi Yamamoto questioned his partner. The boy looked preoccupied with his watch. Or rather, what appeared to be a watch and was actually a micro cam launcher and controller. Besides that was the fact that he looked like he wanted to move over to the vacant seat by the Wongs and have a little chat with his old friend.

          "Nothing…" Takato continued to stare aimlessly at his little device, apparently bored with what he was doing.

          Yamamoto put a reassuring had over his shoulder, a kind look beaming from behind his dark sunglasses, "Go on. He's probably waiting for you."

          "Thanks." The boy stood up and moved over to the vacant seat next to Henry, despite the fact that his seat was already reserved for him. Sitting down, he spoke what he considered the best opening line possible at this solemn time. "You never told me you were leaving tonight. I was planning on calling you to say goodbye after I came home from the bank, you know."

          "Takato?" The Chinese Tamer turned to see his best friend smiling wryly at him, as if to say, 'Surprise!' "What are you doing here?"

          "Heading the same way you are, man." He considered telling Henry the truth, although he already had been given a different excuse by NS-8. Then again, judging from what happened to most uninvolved people who learned the truth in some movies, he reconsidered his options. Nobody would ever know that, though, yet it was safer, and probably best, for the both of them if he just used that other reason, "I found out only a few hours ago that I was selected for some kind of international quiz tournament…"

          "You? Chosen to compete in an international quiz bee? Get real!" Henry quipped, his friend chuckling at that remark.

          "Hey, don't ask me, ask the principal!" Takato replied in a clueless fashion.

          "So where's it being held?" The rabbit on Henry's shoulder asked.

          "In Leningrad, Russia. Isn't that great!" the NS-8 recruit barked out somewhat enthusiastically, "I get to see all the cool stuff there!"

          "They don't have any cool stuff in Russia, Takato," Terriermon answered. _This punch line is definitely going to get everybody to laugh, alright_. "Do you know why?"

          "Why?"

          "Because everything in Russia is ice cold! It's way passed freezing up there, so don't expect any cool stuff since 'cool' can still pretty much be withstood by human standards!" the cream and green digimon did his punch line, which, unfortunately, instead of bringing laughter into the cabin, procured sweat drops from the heads of all who heard that remark.

          "Very funny, Terriermon," Henry remarked, a large hint of sarcasm in his voice as he turned his attention back to the usually be-goggled boy. "The question is: If you're supposed to be going on a trip to Russia, why are you on a plane that's headed to Beijing anyway?"

          "Well…" Takato thought of the best answer, and found it coming forth from the lips of his principal, "Well, mister Kanzaki said to take my time since the competition isn't until Thursday, so I guess that would be the reason… well, besides that is the fact that the company that owns this plane is being funded by Nikamura Crediting…" _Oops… that's not right!_ "Uh… what I mean to say is…"

          "So who's sponsoring your trip to Leningrad?" a fourth persona cut him off. Upon closer inspection, this fourth person turned out to be Janyu Wong, Henry's father, and a programmer at Hypnos. "From what Henry tells me about the facility's condition, I don't think your school has enough funds to spare to send someone abroad, moreover get itself fixed."

          "Um… Nikamura Crediting is shouldering the expenses for this trip including plane tickets, lodging, meals, and other miscellaneous expenditures…" the former Tamer laughed somewhat nervously at his response, hoping that it was satisfactory to quench Mister Wong's seemingly boundless curiosity.

          "Is that why you've got your Bank Manager with you?" Henry noted having seen Yamamoto at Jeri's funeral, assuming that he was Takato's co-worker since the only families that didn't have members working at that bank who came there besides the Matsukis, Wongs, and Katous (Takato and Jeri excluded), were a few distant relatives who the boy was already familiar with… Not to mention that mysterious hooded person hiding behind the crowd that Takato had seemingly kept his eye on for some time.

          "Oh, no, him? He's my supervisor. See, the bank President believes that time shouldn't be wasted simply because I was going abroad, so he decided to send my supervisor along in order to continue helping me with my training…"

          "That makes sense…" Janyu said, the last of his suspicions washed away. The conversation went on smoothly from that point on, until finally an announcement was made to buckle up because the plane was about to taxi.

Waiting Area, Tokyo International Airport

Tuesday, 2030 hours, Local Time…

          _"Flight D69BJ, now departing for Beijing,"_ the female voice of announcement sounded through the loudspeaker. Rika Nonaka sighed as she laid her lavender eyes on the wall-mounted clock, and tensed. _Thirty minutes… Dammit! _The breaking point was close… so close she could feel herself beginning to lose her sanity. One of the things that she hated the most was waiting, waiting, and more waiting… She gritted her teeth as her eyes twitched, _Must… be… patient… must… stay… calm… must… wait… some… more…_

          "You okay?" Yusuke Shinigami disturbed her somewhat odd-looking 'meditation'. He was recruited by NS-8 right out of University, and spent several months at their academy in Osaka, where they taught him all he needed to know about… network monitoring and maintenance of the systems that Virgin didn't need, or rather, thought she was to good, to handle. That was, pretty much, all he did around the clock for the past two years: sitting at a console and keeping tabs on the constant data flow that ran through the internet. He had no field experience whatsoever. However, all that changed when Sakamori saw his records concerning his performance on the field simulation. He was immediately transferred to NS-8's primary.

          "Huh?" the Queen of Digi-Battle cards looked over to her current partner for this mission. Why had Sakamori sent him along anyway? It just wasn't sensible. Perhaps he was persuaded by some 'paternal instinct' to do so? Maybe. "Oh. What is it, Shinigami?"

          "Well, judging from the way you look, I'd say you're having a case of TAS." This term raised an eyebrow. Obviously, it was the first time the redhead had ever heard of it.

          "What's that?"

          "TAS – Time Awareness Syndrome – is a kind of disorder in some impatient people wherein the victim is exposed to awareness of how slow time went by whenever you kept tabs on it. It usually occurs to people who're stuck facing a clock while waiting for an appointment. The usual result is that a person loses his or her sanity in trying to keep himself or herself from just getting away from that clock and forfeiting that appointment. It's completely theoretical, though."

          "Well I think you should tell those theorists that the damned thing is real," she replied. She checked the clock again: _Twenty-nine minutes and fifteen seconds! GAH!_ "Did you ever get the feeling that time was picking on me?"

          "Heh," the NS-8 technician scoffed that idea, "Miss Nonaka, it picks on all of us." Shinigami thought for a moment. "Why don't you go get a coke or something at the softdrink dispenser while I keep you covered? You know, just to get rid of that tension…"

          "Hmm…" Rika considered the suggestion with a thoughtful pout as her partner sat in one of the plastic chairs beside her. "I think I just might do that. Thanks for the idea, Shinigami." She stood up to leave her post momentarily, "You know what? You're not half bad." With that, the NS-8 operative turned and walked over to the softdrink vending machine, fishing out a few 100 yen coins from her business suit's pocket and dumped them into the slot, pushing on the selection of her choice. She quickly snatched into her hand the red can of cherry flavored Coca-Cola that rolled down towards the pickup bin.

          The basic color scheme for the can was the same as those of the original flavor save for the swirl near the sign, which, to put it simply, had a lot more red than white. The picture of a cherry was suspended just above the 'C' of an elegantly written 'Cherry' just above the Coke sign. Rika popped the lid open and took a sip. The taste was odd. It was hard to believe that people actually enjoyed drinking this stuff. _Why'd I even pick this one in the first place?_ It was like drinking the standard cola with a hint of cherry. She shivered slightly upon thoroughly sampling the strange liquid that slid down her throat and decided to take a trip to the powder room to dump the rest of that crap down the sink. She could still come back later to get a can of root beer… that crap she could still hope manage with. But this? She would make sure to add it to her big NO-NO's list. _Blech__…twenty-eight minutes and ten seconds… _The NS-8 operative sighed inwardly. This operation was going to be the longest one in her entire life if she ever got to finish it.

          In the meantime, Agent Yusuke Shinigami was busy fiddling with his palm pilot, figuring out how exactly he was going to start a new game of 'Invader Zim: The Armada Arrives'. Using nothing but a stylus on a holographic projection screen, it was, pretty much, very hard to work with indeed. It was funny, really. Even computer screens became 3D. He missed those in the old days when all he had to do was stare into a 2D monitor and type whatever corrections he deemed fit to the program complex. Of course, majority of those corrections were seen as errata by Virgin and were immediately converted into something else, which her 10000 Terahertz Calculative Complex accurately determined to be correct. Indeed, she – everybody saw her as a female… perhaps it was some sick joke done by lonely programmers who were included in her original programming period – was the greatest intellect on the planet.

          Shinigami cursed silently as he lost another life point to those stupid dogs. This game was starting to get really annoying really fast. Besides its difficulty to manipulate due to Three Dimensional Gameplay, another problem with a holographic projection screen was that everybody else could see what you were doing. Imagine if there were something else on that screen instead of just some dumb game… something worse, like say, pornography. Wouldn't that be a major problem? The hologram projector screen for the palm pilot was probably an innovation bent for the worse, as it was a definite privacy killer. Besides that was the fact that lab tests proved monkeys to hallucinate after prolonged exposure to the aforementioned display system. Although that didn't mean that humans would suffer from the same complication, the possibility was still there…

He turned to see Rika come back and offer him a can of root beer, sipping on her own. The NS-8 technician gratefully accepted the tin container as she sat down with that tense look returning to her face, and popped the lid off. The redhead continued to sip from her own can as she once again eyed the wall clock, _Twenty-five minutes!? _She thought in disbelief. _Is that thing broken or something!?_ She had even taken her time to wash – wash, mind you, not rinse, with soap, of course – her hands in the ladies' room, dry them with the automatic blow-dryer, and thoroughly wipe the excess water off with tissue before grabbing those cans of root beer and coming back to her post, and all she got was another three minutes!? There had to be something wrong with that clock. There just _had_ to be.

          "Still suffering from TAS?" Shinigami inquired.

          "Does it look that obvious?" she answered in remorse. Rika couldn't help but glance at the clock for the nth time that night. "Twenty-four minutes and thirty seconds…" she sighed, "It's not gonna get any better than this, is it?"

          "Actually, it can," her partner momentarily set his can of root beer on the other seat next to him and handed her his palm pilot (which he'd considered cashing-in in exchange for any amount of yen at all). "Do you know how to handle holographic displays?"

          Nonaka emptied her own can and tossed it into a nearby garbage bin as she took the palmtop computer into her hand, picked the stylus out of its sheath, and began playing some other game the way it was supposed to be played. "Let's just say that I've been around the block more than once…" _Finally, something to kill that damned time with! _She glanced at the clock yet again, this time, a twinkle of confidence in her eyes, _Twenty-four minutes and counting!_

Director's Office, 14th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Tuesday, 2056 hours, Local Time…

"I'm telling you, Senyor Sakamori," NS-5 Director Felipe Santiago insisted, "I've never even thought that such a device as a Pan-Digital Converter could exist until you called me up a few minutes ago!" Santiago was in his early forties, the youngest member of the Executive Twelve to be exact, and looked like your average Hispanic Caucasian with his dark brown hair and matching baby blue eyes. How exactly did a South American Director understand what was being said by a Japanese one and vice versa? Simple. A universal translator was taking in every word from either party, analyzing them, and converting them into the corresponding vocabulary entry for the receiving persona. Simple linguistics, right?

          "Oh, come on now, Felipe," NS-8 Director Akira Sakamori quipped. What was the point of denying something that you just requested something to be done about? He didn't know much about Santiago except the facts that he was Hispanic, he lived in South America, and he had a problem with remembering things he'd done but a few hours ago. The third he concluded from Santiago's denial of everything concerning the Pan-Digital Converter – the very same Pan-Digital Converter that was supposed to be delivered into the hands of Rika Nonaka within the next three or so minutes. "You sent the e-mail to me yourself at 2:15 AM this morning!"

          "That would be around 3 PM here in Brasilia. I was at home that time of the day for my siesta. The Deputy was in charge. When I asked him later for any incoming or outgoing messages, he said there were none!" That was very strange. Nonetheless, the message had come from Felipe's personal e-mail address, specialized with a password encrypted to avoid hacking.

The thought hit the NS-8 Director. They also had those online code breaking programs. Yet, that was impossible. Network Security utilized state-of-the-art encryption methods to ensure that not even those could do so. The only possible way for somebody to access an E-12 member's e-mail address was to either take the Director for hostage, which was next to impossible (Sakamori learned that it _was_ possible the hard way, from last month's Agency attack), or to have a decryption program whose capability either paralleled or surpassed that of Network Security's program. That meant that only the biggest and most powerful organizations could do so. And the NS-8 Director had just one in mind.

          "Virgin?" he had apologized to the digital sentience later that afternoon after the briefing, and a brief talk with Agent Takamiya concerning the recovery of Takato's partner due to the alarmingly increasing rate of Guilmon poaching by renegade Guardian Algorithms that escaped deletion. The boy had agreed to do so as soon as possible, and promised to have that red dinosaur back before its partner returned from overseas. Sakamori always seemed to find favor in that freelancer. Perhaps it was the innocence of a child that drove the boy to such heights that he did just about whatever was bidden to him. It was either that, or Kai was overly confident that his modify card deck would make him invincible. That was, more or less, true. He could turn a mega into mincemeat with a simple combination of two cards. But so what?

          "Yes, sir?" the digitized female voice boomed from its synthesizer, "If it's about the e-mail that Director Santiago supposedly sent you, I have determined that there was indeed an accessing of his e-mail address around that time… although there was this anomaly I detected—"

          "What kind of anomaly, Virgin?" Sakamori interrupted the cybernetic consciousness, somewhat irritated that he wasn't told about it earlier. The idea struck him that perhaps it was because he was very 'busy' that time and scolded her. He cursed himself for putting the suppression of her childish attitude as a priority over the use of her boundless (maybe) mental capacity for their proper purposes.

          "Well, I _was_ able to confirm the accessing of his address, but I was unable to determine from where… I've been having one of my sub-consciousnesses work on solving that for the past nineteen hours, but it's still not that clear. The sending terminal was meant to become untraceable by bouncing the signal off several hundred satellite and modem relays simultaneously and continuously. At the rate which data travels these days, at this point the signal's been bounced off an approximate number of several quadrillion to the fifteenth power relays already, and is already impossible to zero in on an exact location of origin…" There was a slight pause in that explanation, and Sakamori was getting the unshakable feeling that Virgin had either broken down, or was being a kid again, smiling at him wryly. "By any other calculative intelligence other than yours truly." Apparently, the latter had occurred. "I've currently narrowed it down to the Shinjuku District…"

          "Wait a minute…" The NS-8 Director interrupted again, somewhat in disbelief, "You mean to tell me that Santiago's address was accessed from here? In Tokyo?"

          "You got that right, sugah!" Virgin did a terrible imitation of a hillbilly girl.

          "I told you I had nothing to do with it!" Santiago's accent rubbed itself into the older man's head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I should be getting some breakfast now." The transmission ended. It was about 10 AM in Brasilia, which was an odd time to have some breakfast. Sakamori figured that what Santiago meant to say was that he was getting some brunch.

          A faint alarm sounded from the voice synthesis box, followed by Virgin's triumphant announcement, "I did it! I've zeroed in on the terminal's exact location!"

          "Alright, where in Shinjuku?"

          "Well, I never expected this to be so close to home, but… does the 4th floor of D-Tech Pacific ring a bell?"

          "You're right…" Sakamori thought of how gravely the consequence was of falling for such a ploy. But the question was why would the Agency fake a mission request in that manner? What a worse time to listen to Pan for selecting Nonaka to take care of that operation. The whole damned thing was a setup! "Virgin, get me Aya Sazaki."

          "You know, sir, I get the impression that you have a liking for Agent Sazaki… is that right?" the Virtual Digital Nexus complied with his request anyway, adding, "You're making me jealous, you know that?"

          "Just do it," came the impatient reply.

          "Been there, done that, sir."

          "You have reached the quarters of Aya Sazaki.," sounded a voice that was, more or less, coming from the recorder of an answering machine, "I'm not available right now, so please leave a message after the beep. I promise I'll get back to you as soon as possible." The only giveaway that it was the real thing speaking, were two things: One, Aya didn't have an answering machine. And two, the 'beep' sounded like it came from a living organism rather than an answering machine, "Just kidding! What's up?"

          "Aya, I need you to establish contact with Nonaka's team at Tokyo International now!" Sakamori was in a state near that of panic, and the young technician could tell that. He couldn't help but feel that way. The more he saw her, the more he felt like she _was _his Little Ruu. He'd had Intelligence Section get information on her family, but apparently, their searches were without merit.

          "Uh-uh… 'fraid that's a big no-no, chief… Some kind of jamming signal is scrambling all radio waves entering and exiting the perimeter of T.I.A. that aren't being used for aircraft communications… and NS-8 doesn't have any of those. Nonaka'll have to manage with what she's got."

          "I see… thanks anyway." Sakamori had more option in mind, and he wasn't hesitating to use it. He didn't wait for Aya to say her goodbye as he switched lines to the operator. Again he was greeted by that cheerful, "Good evening, sir. How may I help you?" that seemingly all operators said at _any_ time of the day. "Contact Field Ops Section and have them organize a five-man strike unit ASAP. What this is about? It's a matter of life and death! That's what this is about!"

Waiting Area, Tokyo International Airport

Tuesday, 2059 hours, Local Time…

          Rika Nonaka glanced at the clock as she set the palm pilot down. Apparently, she had lost interest with the little trinket because the countdown was down to seconds… _Five… four… three… two… one…_ "YES!" Yusuke Shinigami could've sworn that he saw her jump three feet into the air. Either she had finished her game, beating the top one score, or, the more obvious, that it was just a second, nearing two, past nine. The long wait was over.

          _"Flight B57TY, now arriving at Gate 12,"_ the announcement sounded off again. Now all they had to do was wait, which is exactly what they'd been doing for the past hour or so. The wait wasn't going to be that long anyway. In a few moments, the area was flooded with people coming from Gate 12, from a wide assortment of nations. Rika tapped on her comm. "The Eagle has landed… stand by for further notice." Strangely enough, all she heard in response to that 'coded message' was a burst of static, eerily quiet despite its somewhat impression that it was raining very hard on the other side. "That's odd…"

          "What?" Shinigami's partial distraction towards an attractive young Caucasian was erased.

          "Nobody's answering…" this was said in a somewhat worried tone. That was ridiculous. Rika Nonaka _never_ worried by _anything_… "Ah, whatever." Her attention was snatched by a very attention-getting sight indeed. Two men in perfectly black (save their inner suits), one of which was carrying a briefcase, were slowly, purposely, striding in from Gate 12. "Well, well, well… look's like our people have arrived."

          "Huh?"

Rika guided the somewhat lost NS-8 technician by pointing over to what she saw. "There… your standard MIB impersonators, Mafia brokers, black suit guys, standard NS Cell attire for international transactions. These are the ones. Just remember, there are only three things you have to do. Look sharp and formal, stay quiet, and let me do all the talking. Got that?"

"Okay… that's all?" Shinigami was surprised at the simplicity of those instructions, and wondered whether he would actually gain any field experience at all from this operation. The two NS-8 employees (can't call them both operatives, can I?) stood up and walked over to the targeted men, confronting them directly.

"Rika Nonaka, NS-8," the redhead flashed her badge at the two figures, who remained silent. She motioned at the briefcase, "Is that the Pan-Digital Converter? We'll take it from here." Its caretaker, who immediately brought his arm back to where it was earlier, somewhat too robotically to even consider as a human movement, handed her the luggage. Rika hefted the black suitcase, checking its weight, "Pretty light for a gadget that does some heavy damage…" she quipped. The two men remained silent.

          _Something's wrong with this scenario… _Shinigami thought as he eyed the two who supposedly worked for the South American NS Cell. They didn't even look South American to him. In fact, they almost looked… Japanese, "Nonaka… can I have a word with you?"

          "What?" she had already shaken hands with the two, and thought that there was no problem with a last second consultation with mister technician here. "Excuse me for a while… I have to check with my associate here." The two nodded coldly, giving her the chilling impression that they indeed were robots.

          "You know that sinking feeling you get when you know that something's wrong, but don't know what or where that wrong can be?" were the first words whispered into the Digi-Battle Card Queen's ear. "Something's not right about this…"

          "You're not the only one… those NS-5 guys are like robots!" she stated what was obvious, but concealed the other thing that bothered her, testing whether or not this guy was good enough to have observed and determined what she'd seen as well.

          "Besides that… didn't you notice that they don't look like South Americans?"

          "To tell you the truth? Yeah… They actually looked a lot more like…"

          "Japanese?" A third voice finished the statement, calling the two NS-8 workers' attention to the men in black, who, by this time, had drawn their pistols and had them trained at their targets… namely Rika and Shinigami.

          The former cursed herself for letting her guard down, and decided that it would be the best time for action than any other, "Shinigami, run!" A moment too late, for by the time the last syllable escaped her lips, a crimson flower had exploded into being on Shinigami's forehead, the NS-8 technician dropping to the ground. A moment later, she found herself sitting on the sides of her legs, most weight supported by her knees, clutching her left shoulder, which now had a bullet in it. "Dammit! What do you want from us, anyway!?"

          "Our orders weren't to take something from you," said the one who downed her partner.

          "Our orders are to take _you_," the briefcase holder, who shot her in the first place, finished the former's statement.

          "Really now…" she looked over to the left, at the space in front of the other man to be exact, and pushed down on the gemstone of a ring she was wearing on her right index finger, causing a slight gritting of teeth. In a moment's notice, there were now two of the NS-8 operative sitting in that fashion on the floor, mirror images of each other. That split-second's distraction was all she needed. A sweep kick from both of them sent the two mystery men down to the floor, giving way for the identical twins to get up and move.

          The original Rika – at least she thought she was the original – dashed into Gate 10, passing the guard who tried to stop her, whilst her copy, she saw dart into Gate 12, which was just across the waiting area. Seeing the unknown operatives recover from that drop, she quickly zipped into the ladies room, where she paused for a breather as well as thank the gods and the one responsible for that device that she now wore on her right index finger, for saving her life. A quick look at the ring brought her back into NS-8's briefing room, wherein her Optec briefing had just begun.

          _Now I know it's still too early for your wedding, _Aya Sazaki joked as she brought out a gold-plated ring with a finely cut sapphire gemstone on top,_ But consider this an early wedding gift. I know what you're probably thinking: that the gemstone here contains some kind of sedative agent that can knock out a guy with one touch for a whole five minutes… Well, that would be useful if you got caught or something, but, no, you're wrong. In this case, the gemstone contains a blood-sampling needle, and a 5 GHz microprocessor with wireless Internet access. I know, it doesn't look like it can contain all that stuff I just mentioned, but trust me. I'm a genius. Now, you're probably wondering what all that equipment is for, too. The body of the ring itself is actually a Digigraphic projector – not holographic, mind you – Digigraphic. Why? When you push down on the sapphire – if you're wondering why sapphire, well that's because it's my birth stone – you activate the blood-sampling needle, which will take a microscopic sample of your blood and—ouch! The wireless will auto boot, log into Network Security's Personnel Archives, and dig out a profile with matching DNA to the sample, at which point it will generate a digital copy of yourself, much like creating a Digimon, actually, and project that thing into the real world by force of micro realization engine that's built-in here. _

Damn, do I look good or what? A perfect mirror image! So perfect, you can even touch it! It does just about everything you can do, only in mirror effect. For example, I'm facing her and I say, "Hi, Aya!" and wave my right hand. Being a mirror image, she will move the hand she has that will make it look like I'm staring in a mirror. Hence, she will move her left hand. Another thing: it also comes with a 0.0009 second delay from the time you start your thing to the time she starts doing it. If you try to run away from her, she will try to run away from you. That simple. The only problem is that the ring can only contain so much more, that I had to sacrifice the battery life to a couple of minutes – that's a bug I'll have to work out – so you can only have your twin sister for that long. After that, the battery shorts out, and…well, to put it simply, goodbye Aya number two. Oh, one more thing. The ring realizes your copy about one foot away from you in the direction in which your face is facing. Say, for example, my body is facing south, but my head is turned east and I switch this thing on. The copy will realize about a foot from where I'm facing, and so end up with her body facing the south, while her head is facing me, or westward, rather. So now that you know the basics on operating that thing – please bring it back in one piece since I still have a few bugs to work on there like the battery – I now hand it over to you and trust that you take good care of it.

          Rika had always considered Aya a chatterbox, saying a lot more than what was needed of her. Nobody seemed to mind, though, especially Yamamoto, who seemed to have an eye out for the 14-year-old. That was silly. They just didn't fit together. The man was over a decade older than her, for crying out loud! That was the last idea that ran through her head before she felt something similar to a mosquito bite on her neck. The only difference was that when she tried to swat it, nothing was there; that, and the fact that she was getting unusually drowsy, slumping to the floor in a heap.

To be Continued…

AN: Wow, this was even longer than the last… I'm starting to write such long things I'm beginning to scare myself! What if I never finish this? Nah… the thing's about halfway through. Now you're probably wondering where I got the idea for Aya Sazaki… If you watch ALIAS, you'll find that SD-6 has its own resident genius and motor mouth, Marshall Flinkman. I just thought that putting two and two together made… I dunno, four? Sorry I couldn't fit Ryo into this chapter. Heh, heh. Don't worry, though, you'll see him very soon. As for Henry's family being recalled to China, well, this little excerpt should give you more or less, a clue of what that has to do in the grand plan:

          "Good day, Mister Wong. My name is Jian-Lee Xing, and I work for the government."

          "Well, I half expected you guys to have a liaison waiting for us…" John Wong replied somewhat unsurprised, "What do you want?"

          "Tell me, Mister Wong. How long has your son been involved with digital phenomena such as Digimon?"

          "Why do you want to know?"

          "I see that you're the inquisitive type, aren't you? Well, I'm sorry to tell you, but that information is classified."

Okay, so that didn't reveal that much about the plot concerning Henry's emigration to China… what the hell? Well, maybe this upcoming one-shot I'm working on would interest you… It's just a peek, but what the hell? It's going to be a songfic too, with a pretty dark atmosphere. With Chapter 5 all done, maybe I can work on this and finish it in a month or so… but just because I'm working on something else doesn't mean I've stopped working on this little thing I call Guardian Algorithm. Besides, if you looked up my bio, you will notice that I have a sequel on the coming soon status: Pandora's Fox. Might as well give you a peek on that too, eh? Well then prepare for a double sneak peek special on my soon to come fics!

          "The Winner and National Champion: Arvin Sloane!" the referee announced, lifting the said person's right arm in a victory stance. Arvin looked, how should one say? Foreign. His dress code was your standard turn-of-the-20th-century American kid's clothing: a black beret that topped his messy dirt blonde mane, long-sleeved white button-top shirt, and suspenders, along with brown mountaineering boots. Arvin smirked wryly, his eyes boring holes into the greatest Adversary he'd ever had: the redhead sitting at the front row of the audience who wore a blue 'you-broke-my-heart' T-shirt, returning his stare with one that gave so cold an impression that you would freeze if you weren't careful.

          Rika Nonaka hated that man down to the core for beating her at the one thing she actually found interest in. It was really pointless to hate someone who was, to put it simply, better than you at what you did. However, she wasn't the kind of person to think about points. He was going to pay for this outrage, and one way or the other she was going to gain possession of the title, 'Queen of the Cards'… if it was the last thing she ever did.

That one was supposed to go with the lyrics for Linkin Park's 'In the End'. I know, it sounds pretty senseless at first, but I assure you, it will make sense later. Now this one's from my sequel-to-be for Guardian Algorithm.

          The Guardian Algorithm checked with Virgin, attempting to identify this strange Digimon that it was not familiar with. "No, I got nothing on this baby. Well, besides the standard Renamon chassis, she's completely alien. Oh, and one more thing. Her power output is unbelievable! At Rookie level, she can trash your average Mega like he was something that belonged to a garbage can! I'm granting you authorization for an emergency Strike Team transmogrification if you want, but whether you use it or not is entirely up to you."

          "Virgin has no information concerning this Digimon," the program in black announced to its companions.

          "Engaging a Digimon whose identity Virgin has no data on is risking a 50-50 chance of defeat, even if we are in numbers," the second pointed out, "Do we proceed?"

          "Yes," the third answered, "It's still…"

          "Just…" the first tailed.

          "A Digimon…" the second finished as the first launched its attack, sending a right fist towards its target: namely, the 'Black' Renamon, who intercepted it without so much as breaking a sweat. It gritted its virtual teeth as the mysterious Digimon tightened its three-fingered grasp on the 'Agent's' hand and crushed it, the aforementioned body part evaporating into countless crumbs of pure data.

Okay, now I know what you people are thinking, and yes, that scene was a rip-off from The Matrix: Reloaded. I just couldn't help it… I thought the idea was really cool. Anyway, this pretty much gives a peek on my future plans for writing… I think I'm going to take a break from writing Guardian Algorithm for a while, but once I'm done with that one-shot, I'm getting back to the action. Thanks for all of your support right now! My current goal is to try surpassing two of my favorite authors on FF.net: Ender1, and C. E. Fleming. You've gotta check out their fics some time! Especially Ender1's Marooned (check out the Vandread section), and C. E. Fleming's Insurrection (check out the Starcraft section). One last thing before this extra long note comes to an end: PLEASE REVIEW!


	6. CHAPTER 6

AN: Ah, finally, newbi and I have done away with 'In the End'. Thank God. Now I can finish with Guardian Algorithm. Sorry if I left you hanging there with that extremely rushed fifth chapter. You guys are probably wondering what happened to Rika back there at the airport, eh? Well, you'll find out now. By the way, I thought about it, and now I think I have the right idea in mind. While I write Guardian Algorithm, I'm going to fill you guys in little by little on the events of Pandora's Fox. Then, maybe I'll be quieted down for once. Further more, I'm sorry about screwing up with Henry's father's name… must've misheard it… that has been corrected now, though… I hope. Ah, whatever! Just read my replies to you guys.

Skittles the Sugar Fairy: I'm sorry… were you currently working on Missing Link? Aw, hell. My bad for such a way-off-the-target guess. Tell me, what did you mean by your betting that 'any agent would wonder about Guilmon'? Anyway, hope you see this tiny installment, right? 'Cause if you don't, well, I won't be able to have fun anymore . evil laugh

Procrastinatorman: There's still a lot of factors in my writing that convince me NOT to get into professional writing, including the fact that I can't even surpass my idol from the Vandread section: Ender. You'll know what I mean when you read his fic entitled: Marooned.

Himitsu the Hunter: Why the bloody hell you didn't see this sooner? Hmm… well, that's probably because the chances of finding something like this in something as large as the Digimon section (28000 entries) is like looking for a needle in a foot-deep haystack the size of Texas… LITERALLY. Btw… sorry I wasn't able to read your serial yet… things are getting pretty busy at school and I can barely touch a computer anymore. Especially since I'm grounded for weekdays.

Tatsu-no-Houou: My, my, my… aren't we the thinker here. I'll tell you one thing, though and it's that Takato will get Guilmon back very soon…

Newbi: Having two Gallantmon fighting side-by-side does sound interesting, but let's just say that I need a WarGreymon for the plot to work out. As for the chicken, it's true. I saw it on Ripley's some time ago. Now for Mozart's laugh, I both saw it on VCD, and read about it in some historical records. As for the separation… hmm… Well, I saw on several sites that the purpose of Author Created Characters is to enhance character development of the series characters. I might as well get Takato to know Yuri, right? As for that 'idea', don't worry about Kazu. I assure you that both he and Kenta will be safe from Ryo's… um, homicidal tendencies? So safe, in fact, that they would be making an appearance later in the series… during the timeline of Pandora's Fox, which, as you can see, appears somewhat interesting… what, with the so-called 'Black' Renamon. At least I think so… By the way, thank you so much for finishing In the End. You have no idea how much that means to me. I can finally get my mind of one thing and back into another. Oh, and about that quote you posted there, I think it pretty much does suit the mood I planned to put Rika in… I'm starting to think that you're one kick-ass mind reader. Tell me then… what am I thinking right now as I type this question?

Disclaimer: My name is Fizzy 13, and I think you all know what I mean to say when I put something here in this space, don't you think? I'm currently trying to get through the phase in my life where I spit out some random scene from one of my dreams (namely seeing Kari taking a bath in a tub of ice-cold lemonade, don't ask me why) at the wrong person and debate with him (for about six weeks) about how I'm not obsessed with her. As if that wasn't enough, that person FORCES me to create a Kari clone for this story. Perhaps he's got an obsession with her? What do you think? I am also going through that phase in my life where whenever I see Zoë Orimoto, I imagine seeing her crying, chained to a dungeon wall wearing nothing but whip-lash cuts (fresh or otherwise) all over her body besides tattered versions of her clothes (I know, I'm one sick puppy). In any case, to relieve myself of the evil within (that's right, I've got pure evil inside of me), I decided to give her a special guest appearance somewhere in this fic (although I doubt the role to be that important) in some coming soon chapter. I was thinking maybe making her a European Agency Operative who gets captured and interrogated by the CIA (I mean she _is_ Italian, isn't she?)? In any case, I suppose I should give the credit for this evil inside me to my favorite primetime super villain of all: Arvin Sloane (played by Ron Rifkin). Trust me, he's **PURE, UNPROCESSED EVIL IN ITS FINEST FORM**. And I LIKE THAT. By the way… does anybody here know the site of _any_ Arvin Sloane fan club? Just mail me the address, will you? I wanna join one as soon as possible! Oh, and I don't own the damned original Digimon characters who appear in this fic, alright? That should be the sixth time for the record here.

Places to Go, Things to See, and People to Meet 

Main Lobby, Tokyo International Airport

Tuesday, 2147 hours, Local Time…

          The area of the large commercial edifice that was usually the most crowded now lay in silence. Amidst the empty waiting chairs and information booth stood five men, clad in the standard strike team uniform of black helmets, black body armor with their respective agency's initials on the back, black combat suits, black combat boots, black… everything. Standing in the middle of the small crowd was a middle-aged operative, who had just tapped on his commlink. "Tanaka here, Main Lobby is secured. Apparently, the jamming signals evaporated the moment we broke in… It was as though they knew when we would come."

          "I see…" came the voice on the other line, "Anything on Nonaka's team?"

          "Nothing, sir," The strike team leader shook his head, "Looks like their transmitters are dead… Whoever is responsible knew exactly what to do. Perhaps the Agency _does_ have a mole inside NS-8 – what do you think, sir?"

          "That is becoming quite a possibility, alright." Akira Sakamori shook his head. He had quite a few suspects at the moment, including people who ranged from men and/or women in his personal detail, to the lowly (if they could be considered lowly) desk-trained agents who worked on the eight different levels of NS-8's primary. More specifically, the few outstanding citizens included: Aya Sazaki, because of her technical knowledge that seemed to fit just about every situation a little too perfectly for her own good, Taberuni Pan, because of the implications that Sakamori's failure to accommodate Network Security's difficult requirements would result in his benefit, and maybe even Hiroshi Yamamoto. Why? It was a little something in him called 'unquestioned' loyalty that was beginning to become questionable to the point that he had become the ever-present 'last guy on the suspect list' of any offense done within the said NS Cell's jurisdiction. What had he done to achieve such suspicion? It appeared as though every mission he had gone through as of late somehow got screwed up as though he had, one way or another, engineered it to. "Virgin?"

          "Yes sir?" The digital sentience responded in a somewhat bored disposition. She had spent most of the 'alert' period scanning Network Security's vast Digital territory for the nth time, searching for – and not finding any – possible attempts at infiltrating their systems, save for some accidental visits to NS-9's network by unsuspecting surfers. It wasn't exactly one of her hobbies, but it was one of the routine tasks she was required – or programmed – (she didn't know which was more accurate) to perform nonetheless. The African NS Cells were currently their most vulnerable points, which was why she was required to increase security measures in that sector.

She couldn't blame it on anybody except mankind himself, for turning the said continent into the biggest collective of third-world countries on the planet, but what could she do? Mankind was, after all, nothing more than a monkey… a supposedly smart monkey, who was still, up to this point in time, unable to control himself and his environment properly to the point that they could coexist without one trying to wipe out the other. What were good examples of the ongoing war between humanity and nature?

Well, there was obviously man's first strike: Pollution and exploitation, the former of which caused nature to retaliate by engaging her greatest anti-mankind project of all, something Virgin called Operation: Molten Ice Caps. That was supposedly going to be her final strike, so while she was working on that, she unleashed several of her forces including natural disasters such as typhoons, twisters, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, flash floods, and the like. Apparently, though, it didn't look like either side was gaining the upper hand, if such a thing existed in this conflict. It appeared as though the only thing that was going to settle this once and for all was the deployment and proper use of Operation: Molten Ice Caps.

          "I want you to do a citywide scan for any signs of Nonaka and her partner – Digital, Thermal, Biological, every kind of filter that you possibly have. I can't let anything happen to her on my watch." Outside, he seemed calm enough, but his blood pressure, pulse rate, and heart beat, along with other signs, which Virgin was monitoring, said that hidden beneath the mask of emotionless professionalism was a terrified man, for what reasons exactly even her 10000 Terahertz Calculative Complex could not determine. It was quite hard for a sentience that had the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old to understand such things as the paternal worry that Sakamori had for a person who for some strange reason, closely resembled his beloved – and missing – daughter.

          "I'm on it…" there was a slight pause in the Virtual Digital Nexus' response, "Are you having some kind of fever, sir? Your vital signs are way off the normal chart."

          "No, Virgin, I'm fine." The NS-8 Director assured, "It's a human thing – something you would be incapable of understanding at this stage of your development."

          "My medical knowledge tells me that you are stressed for some reason, sir, and although I can understand that there is a problem in your system, I am unable to determine its source." She had quite a line of thought, as well as the stock knowledge to boot. It was at this point that Sakamori conceived the fact that it was her machine side talking. "Perhaps you, since you are you, a human, used to these kinds of experiences, can teach me how to understand these human lines of understanding."

          "You will learn in due time, Virgin… in due time. Tanaka!" Sakamori returned his attention to the team at the airport, "There's nothing more you can do there. I want you to do a citywide sweep for Nonaka's team. Don't stop until you find them… Find Rika at least. We need to know exactly what just conspired over there and why." He took a sip of his brewed coffee. The NS-8 Director had other things to worry about. Tomorrow was marketing day and since he lived alone, having nobody to do his groceries for him, had to go to the local supermarket and shop by himself. Bringing bodyguards along would only attract attention, and that wouldn't be good. 'The best security is no security', he'd heard a wise CIA Director once say. Since an important figure such as him was supposed to avoid problems such as attracting attention, what better way to keep a low profile than make himself look like some ordinary guy?

          "Yes sir." Tanaka had been with Field Ops Section for fifteen years, leading the strikes that ended up as NS-8's most successful ones ever since he first donned the combat armor that the strike teams used. He was your average seasoned veteran with unquestionable loyalty to the organization whatsoever. "Alright, team, let's move out!"

The NS-8 commandos spread out and proceeded outside the building, eventually making their way into their black strike team van and driving off. If they were going to do a citywide search with the utmost speed and efficiency, they were going to need more manpower than what they had now. This exact train of thought was running at about 160kph through Tanaka's head as he opened his link once again, "Sir, if we're going to search the city without wasting time and efficiency, I suggest you have Field Ops Section send us some backup… like another two teams per district." Tokyo was a vast, towering metropolis that had several districts including Shinjuku, Gion, along with a host of others. It would take days for a single van to search the whole city for two people. A highly clichéd and yet, by far, most effective idiom for this would be a statement that sounded like: They were looking for a needle in a haystack.

          "I understand your situation, Tanaka," the NS-8 Director replied, his voice steadfast and stalwart, "I've already anticipated the possibility of them losing contact while being pursued, and have ordered several other teams to remain on standby in several districts including your area." Sakamori paused, "I realize that you've just given me confirmation of what I feared the most." He was of course, referring to the loss of communication between them. If there was one thing that NS-8 – or any NS Cell for the matter – could not do without, it was communication. He tapped on a touch screen button on his personal terminal's monitor labeled 'GO SIGNAL'. "You can rendezvous with the other team in your area if you want. Sakamori out."

          "Sir," Virgin piped in as soon as he cut the commlink transmission, "Teams Bravo through Romeo have reported verification of you signal. They're on the move as we speak." She didn't mind speaking in terms of being frank, but sometimes, she just wanted to rant around about all the things she had been learning from her tours of the internet so far. Her current obsession was philately, the art, business, and perhaps even culture, of collecting stamps. So many kinds of stamps existed that no human alive, except maybe a philatelist (a man who's profession is stamp collection) could possibly comprehend. That was exactly what she wanted to inform her beloved Director about, and although that _was_ the case, she didn't want last night's argument all over again. She could tell that that was highly feasible, since Sakamori was under much more stress than he was 20 hours ago. _History repeats itself_, she heard one of her sub-consciousnesses whisper thoughtfully.

          "Thank you, Virgin." Sakamori sounded a lot more tired than usual. His gray eyes showed a loss of focus on the screen to the point that his sight began to blur; that aside the fact that he was already experiencing double vision. What's more, he noticed that his head had been drooping with his eyes half closed for the past three seconds or so. He quickly raised it back to level with his Personal Terminal's monitor. Virgin had noted this, and concluded that he must be lacking sleep.

          "Sir, why don't you go home early and get some sleep?" the immaterial girl said with what could only be defined as genuine concern for the officer. "It's been a rough day for you. With only six hours of sleep, I'm surprised you're still able to come here every morning at 10AM. I assure you that Pan can handle this situation."

          "I suppose that that would be the case," the NS-8 Director surmised. He was, simply put, still human after all, and needed to recover from the past nights he had gone through with little sleep, although under the current circumstances, he doubted that to be possible. _Not without knowing whether or not Nonaka is safe…_ he thought with a slight yawn.  "Listen, I'll be at home if you need me. Right now, though," Sakamori punched the intercom, "I think I should get Pan over here as soon as possible."

          The voice on the other end of the line was gruff, somewhat heavy. One could imagine this voice to belong to a heavy-set man in his late-thirties, probably large and barrel-chested, or perhaps large in some other way, like on the abdominal side. "This is Pan. What can I do for you, sir?"

          "I need you to fill in for me, Taberuni." Sakamori's voice was beginning to sound drowsy, and he didn't know if he was even going to make it home – which was about six blocks from Nikamura Crediting – without causing some large-scale sleep-depravation-induced traffic accident. "It looks like my age is starting to catch up with me…" Give or take, he was still young, four years short of qualifying for senior citizenship. Compared to Pan, who was still in his late-thirties, however, he was definitely starting to get old. At least he managed to make the most of his youth, starting out early in the Japanese Intelligence Section, being recruited into NS-8, and later, personally selected by Satoshi Nikamura to replace him when the latter's age got ahead of him.

          "Of course, Akira!" The bread-eating Deputy Director replied with utmost eagerness. He was the most indulgent – in terms of work, that is – man that Sakamori had ever seen, perhaps a little too eager. If Pan were the hypothetical Agency mole inside NS-8, this would be his biggest opportunity to screw up the entire operation. With over a dozen strike teams running amok in the city, he could easily have them confuse each other as hostiles and wipe the whole search party out, effectively rendering Nonaka and Shinigami as MIA. Of course, one could never be too careful, what with Virgin seeing and recording everything that ensued inside the building – inside every NS Cell in the world, to be more precise. "I'll be there in five minutes." At this confirmation of request by superior, the link was terminated.

          The NS-8 Director yawned again, picking up a 'Quick-Vit' pill and drowning it down his throat with what remained of his coffee. That would give him enough energy to move about for at least another hour. Those precious 60 minutes he would maximize perfectly. He already had a workable schedule in mind: Wait for Pan, five minutes, get out of the office, ten minutes, drive home, fifteen to twenty minutes (depending on the traffic), have a _very_ light dinner, ten minutes, take a shower and make ready for bed, fifteen minutes. Maximized perfectly. One detail he noted in particular, though: even if he managed to get some sleep, he doubted that it would be peaceful. His main concern now was his little girl, – his new little girl, rather – his 'li'l Rika', the images of whom being tortured or perhaps even killed would pollute his view of the astral plain for the rest of the night.

Beijing International Airport

Tuesday, 2045 hours, Local Time… (AN: Beijing is two hours behind Tokyo, so a two-hour trip [that's the average time via 747, I think] going in that direction would be just like leaving Tokyo and arriving in Beijing five minutes later)

"Well, this is goodbye, I guess." Takato Matsuki scratched the back of his head as he eyed his best friend for perhaps, the last time in his life. Although, that probably wasn't the case, since there was this gut feeling he had that they _would_ be seeing each other again, 'And quite soon, too', his gut added at that thought. "Hope you meet some new friends where you're going to live." An approaching airplane roared overhead.

          "You and me both," the vest-clad Tamer answered with a laugh. Moments like this brought smiles to his usually deep, thoughtful facial features. Henry Wong slung his large backpack over his shoulder, effectively adding another twenty pounds to his burden. Somehow, he just knew that everything was going to be all right despite the fact that he knew nothing more about China than what Mister Toroyama's lectures stated. After all, his grandparents were the ones who moved to Hong Kong (and eventually to Japan) because of deportation, not him. Exile was too heavy a word to describe it with. As far as he was told, though his grandparents were simply living their lives out, when the 'People's Army' (perhaps because they had a reserve of over 200 million troops?) suddenly busted in and told them they were being evicted. _Talk about frankness._

          A pained cry of agony interrupted his musings, "It's… too… TIGHT…" this not-so-little complaint was being uttered by Terriermon who was once again being plagued by Suzie's by this time more powerful arms in what appeared to be a bear hug, or perhaps the rabbit's own death wish. Either assumption would properly suffice, however, since if one looked close enough, he could probably see that the cream and green Digimon looked kind of happy with what had been given of him by the three mythical old women who used the same eye – the Fates.

Suzie might have retained _some_ of her childish habits, but she truly was growing up into what could only be described as a charming young lady. Unexpected, hell, perhaps even unacceptable at times, to her own family was the fact that she had become the queen of the classroom, not only in terms of grades, but also in terms of attitude, charisma and… how could one describe it? Beauty? Cuteness, maybe, but _beauty_? Unthinkable.

          "Look at it this way," Henry continued the conversation after much consideration of which he should prioritize first; his best friend who was going a few thousand miles west of his current location, or his partner who was about to die of asphyxiation. It wasn't like he wasn't used to it, though. It took about a week or so to get used to his little sister treating Terriermon like before, but he got over it. The same thing occurred frequently about half a decade ago, anyway, so where was the adjustment problem? "I can call you on your mobile once you get off at Moscow and cheer you on for the big competition."

The reassurance was so sincere that for a moment Takato felt like telling his friend the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Unfortunately, he had orders. He knew that the information would somehow find its way into Henry's possession though, and that he'd probably never be forgiven, but what choice did he have? Was their friendship going to end up like what happened to that of Sydney Bristow and Marcus Dixon for their period at SD-6? A big fat lie? The NS-8 operative could only do one thing. He took his friend into a tight embrace, wishing that he'd never let go… wishing the moment would never stop… wishing that the annoying tapping on his back would cease…

_"Flight H13MC now departing for Moscow at Gate 16," _the Pager announced.

          That was when the world came back to him, "Let's go, Matsuki. We still have a plane to catch." The voice belonged to Hiroshi Yamamoto, who, by this time had already acquired their tickets to Moscow. Apparently, he wasn't the kind of person to wait for these friendly affairs to finish on their own. What could one say? Yamamoto never had any friends in his entire life. He'd always been alone. He had no siblings to take care of or to be taken care of. His parents were always abroad on business trips, leaving him effectively unaided to fend for himself. When they did come home, the only thing said of him was, "Don't worry, Hiro. I promise I'll be at your soccer game this week," or, "I promise I'll watch your varsity tryouts before I leave for Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon, Hiro," or maybe even, "I promise I'll meet your friend Kazuko, Hiro. I'm sure she's a very sweet girl," none of which were ever realized in known history.

          His team lost the game that day, what with him, the star player, suffering a leg injury because his attention was focused on the bleachers outside the field. He failed the tryouts for the soccer varsity three years in a row, succeeding in the fourth only because Kazuko was there. Kazuko broke up with him because he allegedly puked in her favorite hat. That incident was followed by his alleged stuffing her locker with toads, and further augmented by his supposed cheating on her by going out with Madoka. Even _that_ was nothing but a rumor. The only fact in all of that hooey was that he _did_ puke in Kazuko's hat, but just because the cafeteria lady, who had a seething grudge against him, specifically prepared the poor boy some recycled food that she managed to recover from last week's biodegradable materials bin i.e. compost pit. Who wouldn't puke at that?

She died immediately afterward, however, from a major heart attack caused by the excitement that ensued from seeing him keel over vomit in his girlfriend's followed hat followed by a powerful slap to the right cheek and some random swearing and insults. Rumor had it that the cafeteria lady still haunted him in his dreams up to date, the sound of her cackling prompting the NS-8 officer to burst out from beneath the sheets in the middle of the night, and scramble six feet to his closet in order to get his gun before realizing that it was all in his head.

          Takato took one last look at his friend and silently whispered his farewell as he turned to the beckoning NS-8 officer. The two went ahead in the direction of their flight to Russia. Henry didn't worry at all about how the day was going to turn out. The sky, although covered from time to time by an airplane passing overhead, was clear, the full moon and stars shining brightly, barely a cloud in sight. That was a sign that the weather would be fine for the rest of the night along with the next day. "Henry!" his father's voice called. The Chinese Tamer turned to see a certain Janyu Wong having a conversation with an aging man in a suit that practically had the words 'Government Guy' written all over it in capitalized format along with the bold setting.

          Janyu turned to his son and spoke, "Henry, I'd like you to meet somebody." He gestured to the man standing beside him, his hairline receded significantly, as well as white from lack of melanin pigments. "He's offered me a job at Lotus Technologies Inc. I'm sure you've heard of it. It's one of the leading computer development corporations today! Can you imagine that?"

          "My name is Jen Lee Xing," the man offered his hand, which was apparently wrinkled with age, to the puzzled boy. "I'm the President of Lotus Tech." Henry reluctantly shook Xing's hand, the latter of which was smiling rather darkly, as though he had some secret agenda besides giving an immigrant a job. First of all, how did he know about this flight? Henry understood how he could've known who Janyu Wong was, after all, the Wild Bunch was globally known for their experiments in artificial life. Secondly, why would he hire a man like his father on the spot?

          Images of his father working with other scientists in a top secret laboratory somewhere in the Himalayas on the completion of some kind of diabolical super weapon were the first things to run through the boy's mind. Funny enough, those images were similar to the ones he saw in a spy movie the night before they packed the TV. Perhaps he was merely being paranoid again? "I've heard much of your father and his… group. He could bring great benefits to this country's computer technology along with our participation with the Global Internet Community. In any case, you shouldn't worry about the pay. I assure you that he'll bring home enough to give your family an excellent life."

          "Right…" Henry became even more suspicious about this man, "What exactly are you assigning him to do?"

          "Programming Division, of course," the President answered with utmost pride, "We're working on a website that teaches people about every single detail of Chinese culture. We need your father to work out some of the bugs that our best men can't get rid of."

          _Typical answer… _Henry thought, _Just the kind that any evil leader of a secret organization bent on world domination would give._ Maybe he _was_ becoming paranoid. Maybe it was those twelve dozen episodes of 'Conspiracy Theory' that he'd seen throughout his life. Maybe both factors were responsible for his way of thinking. In any case, he was sure to be keeping his guard up for the rest of his stay in this country.

          "Perhaps you could visit our headquarters some time?" Xing offered. His smile had become warmer at that point, no longer showing any sign of 'conspiracy possibility' as Henry called it. "By the way, Henry, I've heard about your experiences with Digital Phenomena such as Digital Monsters. They were quite frequent back there in Japan. Perhaps it was because those people had advanced their Internet participation so much… Imagine… dozens of data-born monstrosities ran amok in your beloved hometown. It must've taken you all of your guts to get up on your heels and fight back. In any case, I'd like to have an interview with you if ever you do visit us. Your life must be a very interesting one, especially since you have quite a friend over there…"

          The man eyed Terriermon, who, by this time was sitting on Suzie's shoulder, returning the stare with a somewhat perplexed quality plastered on his face. His eyes then moved on down to Henry's pants, more specifically, the white and green electronic device that was clipped to his belt. "You'd better be careful with that toy of yours," Xing admonished somewhat darkly, "There are many swindlers here in Beijing who'd sell _any_ kind of object they've stolen from _anybody_ just to make a few bucks." It sent chills scampering up the blue-haired boy's spine.

          Henry clutched the arc with reflex to what the Lotus Tech Chairman said. His grip, triggered by conversational tension, tightened to the point that his knuckles whitened from blood depravation. "Thanks… I'll remember that," he replied, his composure shaky. Xing merely nodded, confirming that he heard what was said, and turned back to Janyu, who had gone to the concession stand to get some chips. He was _definitely_ going to keep his guard up whenever he was around that man. He just didn't like the looks he gave him, his arc, or his partner. The Chinese Tamer walked over to his sister and plucked the nervous green rabbit off her shoulder, placing him on his own. "I think we should go for a little walk, Terriermon."

          "I'm with you on this one, Henry." He turned to Suzie and spoke, "Tell your dad that we'll be at the Lobby getting a taxi." The ten-year-old smiled childishly and nodded in approval as the partners walked out of sight. "That guy gives me the creeps, you know…"

          "I know, Terriermon… I know."

Digimateocon Mine, South Sector, Bottom Level of Digital World

Wednesday, 0234 hours, Shinjuku-Tokyo Time…

          Dig, dig, dig, and dig… the only thing ever done in the dark tunnels of this mine by any Digimon. Why all the digging? These caverns were filled with the ore –the raw form, if you will – of Digimateocon, the strongest material known to the Digital World. Who was in charge and why was he engaged in such an operation? According to the knowledge of the Four Sovereign Digimon, the one currently in control of this firm was a Digimon whose name was derived from what the workers here did… dig. Thus, it could be concluded, from simple grammatical equation of the word dig and the suffix present in every digimon's name, –mon, that this certain foreman was named Digmon. Why had the attention of the almighty author suddenly shifted from the bustling airports of the real world to this solitary place, you ask? The answer is simple. This place was part, somehow, of the occurring story.

          Dig… that was the exact word on a certain red dinosaur's mind as he clawed through digital bedrock in search of the 'shiny metal thingies', as he put it, in order to get some more bread from the nice big Digimon who ran the place. Guilmon was content with what he had been given of as a job. After all, what kind of idiot would deny the chance to be able to engage in one of his favorite pastimes and get paid three loaves of bread an hour while he was at it? It had been that way for the past five years.

          After being zapped back to In-training level and getting sucked into that Digi-Gate, Guilmon ended up in front of the opening to the 'big hole', as he put it, and was taken in kindly by Digmon. A couple of days worth of bread later, he digivolved back to Rookie level and made an agreement with Digmon to dig for ore in exchange for three loaves of the Digital World's equivalent of bread every hour. Takato and company had been on the back of his mind ever since. Being a 'master strategist', he figured that once the place ran out of 'shiny metal thingies', Digmon would finally let him go and find 'Takatomon'. Of course, there was a little problem with his plan… the tunnel didn't seem to run out of them. The pastry prize that awaited him every hour, however, was more than enough to overwhelm his desire to see his partner with the destructive force of a nuclear blast and then some.

          It was pitch black outside at this time, but that was no problem, since torches lighted the tunnels 24/7. Apparently, the simple-minded digimon had discovered another one of his 'shiny metal thingies' and was working on extracting the rather large irregularly shaped metal from the bedrock by thrusting his claws just behind it, putting both his hind legs onto the wall in front of him, and pushing backwards with all his might. That didn't end too well, since his claws, oily from the brand of bread he ate, slipped from behind the ore resulting in his flying backwards into the opposite side of the tunnel, or, as he would put it, 'did a horizontal jump.'

          He stood up rather groggily, not noticing the other digimon workers in the immediate vicinity staring at him, since the only thing he saw at the time was the ring of stars orbiting his head. "One, two, three," he counted the pretty lights that spun around and around, before keeling over into unconsciousness. Veemon, the closest that the downed worker had to a friend went to aid him.

          "Hey, Guilmon! You alright, buddy?" the blue creature shook his workmate gently, the lizard rousing with a pained moan. Apparently, Guilmon had hit himself on the head. Well, who wouldn't hit his head if he 'horizontally jumped' into the wall opposite of the one he was jumping off? Veemon seemed agitated at this problem, and decided to take his downed friend to the boss, when a gunshot disturbed his thinking. He helped the red dinosaur sit up before turning to see the root of the new problem.

          Apparently, the shot had originated from a Desert Eagle in the hands of a man dressed sharply in a black business suit, tie showing, shoes shined to the point of blinding quality, white earpiece in his right ear, but most importantly, black sunglasses plastered onto his face. "I would like to see the Digital Monster in charge of this facility." He said, not a hint of emotion showing on his face, nor heard in his voice, "I have an important matter to bring to his attention."

          Digmon, who seemed to be the fastest to move on reflex stepped up from behind the agent, confronting him directly, "I'm in charge of this firm, human. What's the meaning of this?" He tried his best to sound intimidating, and perhaps scare the mysterious man in black away. Unfortunately, it appeared as though the business suit man was not scared at all. If he was, in any manner, though, it didn't show on his face.

          The black suited man merely cocked his left eyebrow upward, in gesture of asking a question. "Tell me… do you have any subjects of Species 158463-GM under your wing?"

          _Just great,_ Digmon thought, _Another renegade Guardian Algorithm looking for trouble_. "Look, Agent um…" It was hard to tell any of them apart. They all looked alike; same face, same attitude, same fashion preference, same weapon, but most horribly of all: same overly shiny shoes.

          "Cain – Agent Cain…" that statement, in itself, was an introduction… no matter how one looked at it. "And its common name is Guilmon, if that's what you want to know. I need his skin to replace my worn out Grizzymon Skin Rug."

          Digmon couldn't believe it. This disgruntled ex-law enforcing program was bluntly asking him to hand over one of his best and most hardworking employees over to become a living room ornament! He didn't know where exactly these monstrosities lived, but whatever the case; he would not allow this foolishness to go on. Stupidly enough, with Guilmon in sight just behind him, he denied the presence of the selected species, "We don't have any Guilmon here, Agent Cain, so please leave us be."

          Agent Cain, or whatever his serial number was, adjusted his sunglasses slightly, and in barely a moment, pulled the trigger of his Eagle, sending a cancerous package of data erasing technology straight into Digmon, who evaporated almost immediately. "Deletion Confirmed. Target: subject 12975 of Species 100326-DM. I'm sorry, Digmon, but that was the wrong answer." He turned to the two remaining Digimon in the tunnel (most had run away at the first gunshot) and noted the fact that they were both growling. "What about you, blue boy? Have you seen any Guilmon here?"

          Veemon had enough of this crap these renegades have been feeding him. He'd seen them take away several of his friends without doing anything… Among them were Drimogemon the wise, Hagurumon the sarcastic, Palmon the energetic… and now he was being asked to hand Guilmon the cheerful over to them without so much as showing his contempt? He stood up, fists shaking with rage, and cleared his mind to release the energy required to make this assault, "Vee Head Butt!" Unfortunately, Cain had anticipated the attack, and gunned the poor rookie down before he even got off the ground.

          "I guess I'm going to have to take you home myself," the Renegade Algorithm said emotionlessly as he neared the red dinosaur, who reacted by blowing a Pyrosphere in his direction. Cain dodged it effortlessly the only way a Guardian Algorithm could, unimaginably fast, and in the shortest fraction of a second fathomable to human understanding, was once again approaching the quarried Digimon.

          Guilmon could only growl as he backed into a corner, "You killed Veemon and Digmon… Guilmon won't forgive you!" At hearing this, the agent smiled for the first time in recorded history as he brought out what appeared to be some kind of harpoon. "Rock Breaker!" Takato's partner leaped forth, curled up into a ball, which upon completion self-ignited, and tumbled, still lively ablaze, into his adversary, who caught him with both hands that started cooking under the high temperatures well past three hundred degrees centigrade.

          Cain gritted his virtual teeth, growling throatily, as smoke began streaming out from between his palms and Guilmon's still burning flesh. The ball of fire finally lost its blaze and stopped spinning, uncurling into its original form. The Former Network Security Program sighed with relief as the feisty Digimon collapsed into his arms after he hit him on the back of the head. "Your kind has so far been the most resistant to our cause… now I see why." The agent's troubles weren't over as of yet, though since at the exact moment he relaxed, he failed to detect the presence that slowly crept up from behind him and whacked him behind the head with something that apparently carried enough force to break a stone wall in two. He dropped like a brick to the cold digital ground just as Guilmon regained enough consciousness to see what exactly had conspired.

          "What… happened?" was all he could say before he began counting stars again, which were, through some mysterious force falling to the ground along with him. Bread. That was one of the things that filled his subconscious mind… that, along with Takatomon giving him a bear hug. Another and probably the most disturbing dream image he'd ever seen in a while included Veemon and Digmon slowly vaporizing into tiny bits of data whilst they mutely called for his help.

          Perhaps he had hit himself on the head so many times that a key held back from unlocking his hidden complex intellect for so long had been shaken into place. Perhaps the unhealthy fats from the oily digital bread had finally gone to his brain. Whatever the reason, though, it caused to see odd things… things he didn't expect to see at all… things that probably would've literally scared the pants off him if he had any _and_ if he were conscious. It was a ghost from his past, the one whose death he'd seen right before his very eyes. It was Leomon, standing proudly, brandishing his sword as he polished it with a pure white rag. The lion looked up from his current work and seemingly stared at the clueless Guilmon in a most serious of ways, "That is destiny, Guilmon. These things are not (I almost typed 'nuts') for us to decide, but for some higher order that our pitiful minds can hardly fathom. You can't change it… destiny has been preordained since the beginning… the beginning of all things."

          That was when he evaporated and was replaced by a familiar yellow fox and her partner. "Don't listen to him!" Renamon cried out, "You can change destiny! Rika and I have proven that!" Her voice softened by several decibels, "All you have to do is try…"

          "Don't give up, either," the redhead standing beside her continued, "Coz if you do, you're going to end up like Leomon… in the Digi-dead-zone, that is." Rika pulled out a blank card from her pack and pitched it in the red dinosaur's direction, the latter clumsily catching it and fumbling a little before taking a good look at it. Apparently, it reflected in his eyes what he truly wanted deep down inside, Takatomon. "You're the one who's supposed to decide your own destiny, not some mysterious ancient force that practically doesn't exist. God doesn't screw your life up. He only knows that your life is gonna be screwed by your own hands but doesn't do squat about it."

          "So stand up and tell Him, 'I won't be screwing my life this time, God. Thanks for letting me know that it's all wrong!'" Renamon added with a deep passion burning within her, "Tell him that you'll make sure you steer your destiny in the direction where it's supposed to be headed! That ought to make him feel happy about you."

          The two slowly faded out and in place of them stood the short, purple, and mischievous Impmon, "It's a dog eat dog food world out there, Dino boy! There's givers and takers, so make sure you pick the right side! Wake up and smell the daisies, Guilmon! That's life! Wake up!" Funny enough, Impmon's form became distorted, similar to the way a reflection in a pond becomes shriveled when you threw a stone into it. What's worse, his last words, namely "Wake up!" wouldn't stop echoing.

          "WAKE UP!" When Guilmon finally came to, it was at least the twelfth time that statement had repeated itself. Thus, it could be concluded that the crimson Digimon woke with a start. The first thing he saw were a pair of blue orbs staring back at him. A pair of hands, soft and silky hands, Guilmon noted, rested themselves on his shoulders and gently shook him. "You're awake?" a youthful voice chimed in, "That's great! Now I can question you!" This was said quite gleefully, and Guilmon didn't know how to react.

          The sapphire eyes darted away, leaving him free to survey his new surroundings. Apparently, he was sitting on a white clinical bed used in… what else besides clinics and hospitals? The rest of his surroundings consisted of pure white cabinets with transparent glass panels that showed their contents, which in turn stood on glass shelves. On the higher side, the ceiling was packed with several high-quality fluorescent light bulbs. There were no windows to the room, and standing in the only doorway, or rather, leaning on the only doorway, was a boy of about 12, his long, purple hair tied into a ponytail that went all the way down to his waist, currently preoccupied by some kind of electronic gadget on his right wrist.

          Beside him stood a midget (Guilmon wasn't sure if it was a midget or a digimon) in a kendo practice suit, polishing its bokken sword with the utmost care he'd ever seen. It was done gracefully, slowly, gently, precisely, the rag cloth not missing a single crevice on the fine wood. The only feature on this short character that gave away the fact that he was indeed a digimon was the tail that stuck out from his pants and the ear parts that seemed to be built into the top of his helmet, similar in shape to a cat's. When Guilmon scanned the immediate area for the owner of those azure irises, he managed to find a teenage blonde approaching him with what appeared to be some kind of paper.

          He'd seen many kinds of paper sheets all over Takato's house, especially his room, during his stay there. After all, 'Takatomon' was, so to speak, an artist. The only time he ever saw the same kind of paper as the one being handed to him at the moment was when the Tamers crew took a group picture using a camera. Since Guilmon had no idea on how photographs were made, he concluded it to be somebody's work. The 'artistry' was magnificent. He'd never seen a more accurate rendering in his entire life. And to think that the time it took to produce them took no more than an hour at the most! Surely, whoever made it must've been a master artist.

          NS-8 Optec Supervisor Aya Sazaki sighed as she handed the photograph over to the red dinosaur. _How can Kai be so sure that this is Matsuda's partner, anyways!?_ It was Takamiya who had rescued Guilmon from becoming a renegade GA's Dino Skin Rug… Actually, Kotemon had done the dirtiest part of the work, knocking the rebellious Agent Cain silly with his bokken while Kai picked the downed miner up prior to firing a DSP at the offending program in order to get him recycled, and finally, opening a Digi-Gate to NS-8's primary using his MUD. All he ever told her as a means of explanation was, _It's a Tamer thing. You techno-goobers wouldn't understand it._

          Speaking of the photograph, it was Matsuki's… when NS-8 had first identified and linked him, as well as the other Tamers, to directly or indirectly influencing Hypnos', as well as their own, operations concerning 'D-Zone' as they used to call it. Thus, in this picture, he was still of the age that Guilmon knew… more importantly, though, he was wearing goggles. Aya was quite knowledgeable with the Digimon trends, and just couldn't figure out why in the hell the 'unofficial leaders' of 'Digidestined' parties had to wear the most ridiculous headgear. They could've just worn sunglasses or even big wizards' hats labeled, 'I'm the Leader Here!' for all she cared, but why goggles?

          This was another great mystery of the universe that Aya 200 (that was one of the nicknames her co-workers gave her by attaching her first name to the nearest hundred of her IQ) would not be able to solve even if she had all of the scientific equipment that the world had to offer. It was simply a 'trend without cause' as she labeled that kind. Another question was why the American translators had to 'Americanize' the names of the characters. They sounded fine just the way they were. In fact, she thought that Hikari Yagami sounded a hell of a lot better than _Kari_ Kamiya. _I mean… it sounds like they're saying Car and adding the long vowel 'e' to it! How stupid can that sound!?_ And what was with 'Kamiya'? Wasn't Yagami good enough for their standards? _Feh_, she cursed mentally.

          Then there was T.K. What was wrong with Takeru? Nothing! It sounded just fine the way it was! The Americans also had this tradition of reducing some fine original Japanese name into a pathetic excuse for a two letter acronym, like Takeru into T.K., and recently, the third season of Digimon, Frontier, Junpei into J.P. What was up with _that_!? Although the side of anime that actually interested her was that there were rumors within the scientific community saying that 95% of ideas for anime weren't actually thought up by their creators, but were actually psychic impulses from some parallel universe out there where the events shown in the said anime truly happened. That could mean one out of two things. Either in some other universe out there, the highlights of this one (i.e. Digimon) were being watched by people as an anime… all the struggles, all the events, character – err human development, or that bitch Hikari really existed and was roaming free in her world while Aya continued to work like a slave for the defense of the Network.

          But that was enough musing. She returned her attention to the Digimon who was staring intently at the picture as though he was already drawn into it by some mysterious force. She decided to answer the question that currently plagued her mind, which she planned to ask him, "You don't know the guy in the picture, do you, red guy?"

          He looked up to his interrogator somewhat puzzled, but answered anyway, "Guilmon knows him very well! Are you friend of Takatomon?"

          _Oh my God, I think we hit the jackpot!_ Aya's eyes widened at that answer. It was the statement of a simpleton, but what could she say? He was, to put it simply, still learning his grammar. Hopefully, NS-8's tutorial team would fix that problem. She turned to Kai hopefully, noting him grinning at her with an I-told-you-so look on his face. Now all they had to do was get Guilmon ready to meet his old partner again. _That,_ she thought, _Is going to be a feat in itself…_

Moscow International Airport

Tuesday, 2058 hours, Local Time… (AN: Moscow is five hours behind Beijing, effectively making it seven behind Tokyo… I know, I'm basically nullifying the travel time of the plane by the time lag of the current time zone, but hey… it let's me keep track of things. It took me 30 minutes to analyze the whole time lag idea… so hard, you know)

          A paper ball flew in the direction of the stainless steel garbage bin, just missing a perfect shot, landing right beside it. The perpetrator for this serious, heinous, and most of all, unforgivable crime of littering sat on one of the monoblock chairs with her feet up, resting on a chair in front of her. One look at her face and you could tell that she identically resembled Hikari Kamiya, kid sister of the currently popular Taichi Kamiya, from the original Digimon series, the only difference being the fact that she wore sunglasses along with a black trench coat and cat suit. Two looks at her face, and you could tell that she was extremely bored. Not that her eyes told anything, since they were hidden behind those tinted shades, but her mouth… she was pouting quite noticeably, that beside the fact that her eyebrows met above her nose bridge in a rather violent manner.

          And as if that wasn't bad enough, her bored slouching position was fast becoming a lying pose as she slowly and deliberately slipped into the aforementioned state. The only thing that kept her from snoring off was the fact that she had to watch her partner, namely a wolf puppy-like thing with a big yellow horn on its forehead. Gabumon as the Digimon experts called him. Well, aside that was the fact that she had a big brother figure watching over her at that period in time. Her crimson eyes stared back at his emerald ones through her sunglasses, and, personally, she didn't like that look he was giving her one bit.

          "Why do I have to come with you in the first place anyway Yuri?" NS-4 Tamer Karya Hiakiim complained with quite an amount of spite in her voice, "It was your assignment to find the time and place for the damned Agency Directors' meeting, not mine." Karya was, simply put, a rebel of sorts. Losing her entire family in the US-instigated war on Iraq when she was nine was one of the reasons why she ended up in here in Russia. That incident was prior to being caught and hazed by some drunken American soldiers. The fact that she considered, as a personal opinion, that the American invasion of her homeland was a big booboo to world order was bad enough.

          Experiencing the torment of being beaten bluntly with rifle butts by some drunken American soldiers whom she had no quarrel with whatsoever was the straw that drove her out of the country into Russia. How was this achieved? During the 'renovation' period, Russia was one of the nations that volunteered, for some reason (they were against the war itself), to send in civil aid teams via airmail. With several months' worth of experience in running around and hiding from both American and Iraqi soldiers alike, it was no hard task to sneak past the guards at the airport and onto one of the Russian relief planes that was departing to its home in order to restock.

          Although she had gotten past the border, it was still far from smooth sailing. Karya had to get some kind of job to survive in the city of Moscow. It was busy, and had nights that were a hell of a lot colder than any she had ever slept through. What she had been living on? Food she had either rummaged for in garbage cans or for some occasions, goods stolen from various stores. It was also in Moscow where she learned how to pickpocket, her criminal records (yes, she's a felon) totaling to 25000 rubles in cash and jewelry.

          One would probably wonder how she stayed warm in an environment that had nights that were freezing compared to the ones she was used to. That was where the 6000 rubles worth of liquor that she stole came in. After all, it was scientifically proven that alcohol (alcoholic drinks, to be more precise) increased body temperature to the point where it could keep a Hawaiian comfortably warm in a barren Alaskan cabin that was void of any furniture (AN: correct me if I'm exaggerating here) for a whole night.

          Wine and food weren't the only things she stole from the stores that lined the streets of Moscow. Included in the list of articles that she had filched was a Petrovik Kalashnikov (PK-106), the little brother of the Alamovat rifle that the Militia used. Small as it was, in fact, that you could hide it in a trench coat without worrying about it getting discovered… unless, of course, you were stupid enough to go through a metal detector. But then that was what ceramic firearms were for, right? Of course, to counter the idea that ceramic firearms were completely undetectable except by strip search, the NSA had finished an X-ray scanner that could see through you and your clothing unless you were paranoid and wore a lead suit… which the government would not allow. That weapon was stolen alongside a full metal jacket's worth of 7.62mm ammunition totaling to 1000 rounds. How and where she used these weapons were a mystery even to the SVR's (modern day KGB, without the brutality) intelligence section.

          "That was papa's decision, not mine," Yuri replied. It wasn't like he didn't respect his adopted father's decisions. It was more of an issue on who had been assigned to him. He'd heard Karya's story. It certainly helped him understand why she was such an independent person; a lot more independent than he was, anyway. He had Agumon to aid him during his time on the streets while she had nobody. He'd also read from her records, that on several accounts of assault, she had deliberately attacked and wounded a total of sixteen American tourists in public areas, two of which died from blood loss and ruptured organs (she used a bowie knife on a few occasions). Karya was lucky enough to escape the Militia unhurt, although the same couldn't be said for the eleven pursuing officers whom she wounded on several arrest attempts. To think that it had all occurred within a year after her 'migration'.

          NS-4 had recruited her out of the slammer quite a few months after she was finally caught. For what reason, perhaps only Tezansky knew why. Some rumors that circulated included the possibility that Tezansky was a pedophile and kept her as a bedmate, although that was something that Yuri definitely rejected wholeheartedly as some sick perverted NS-4 programmer's idea for a pornographic novel he was working on. Then there was the more ridiculous notion by some of the younger, geekier operatives who said that he was a big fan of the Digimon series and that he took her in because she was an exact double of Hikari Kamiya. That was also something that the adopted Komanov rejected as stupid. He lived in the same house as that man, and he never saw anything that gave way to the possibility of such a childish claim. A rumor that Yuri was more inclined to believe though (he started it in the first place), was that Tezansky knew that she was the right partner for the Gabumon who had practically been spit out of the Digital World and into NS-4's proper. Or perhaps it was the idea that the NS-4 Director knew he could use her pick pocketing skills to their advantage. Whatever the reason, though, Yuri was confident that it was a good one.

          "Still, I don't understand why he had to ask help from NS-8, of all Cells!" Karya leaped back into her original posture, placing her hands behind her head after taking a swig of the vodka she had carried along with her in a stainless steel thermos. Until this point in time, nobody except Virgin, whom she had promise to keep silent, had found the identity of the liquid that she truly kept in there. Everybody else was convinced that she was bringing some kind of French soda with her (some ideas are just damned crazy, no?).

          "Director Sakamori is the only member of the Executive Twelve that papa trusts enough to ask help from in this situation." The two had known each other since the fall of the Soviet Union, when both had been instated to the E-12, being the best of friends from then on. Yuri spit some gum he had been chewing into the trash bin, a perfect shot if anybody ever saw one. "And that's the right way to throw your trash. Make sure not to miss…" a mischievous smile found its way to the Tamer's face, "Unless of course, you want 'Littering' to be added to your criminal record."

          That statement provoked an undesired reaction: a crumpled ball of paper flying into the speaker's face that is… "Let me remind you, that once my duties here at NS-4 earn the right stars, I should be asking you the question, 'What criminal record are you talking about?'" All that was derived from her reaction was a mocking 'humph'. Apparently, the joke wasn't that funny… that was of course, if she meant it to be a joke. "So Yuri, what's this person like, this… Yamamoto?"

          Yuri had only met Agent Yamamoto once, and that just happened to be a coincidence. It was during the D-Reaper Crisis of 2002. For some unknown reason, the United Nations had ordered all NS Cells to stand down, although there was some allowance for them to monitor the D-Reaper's progress for future encounters. Yamamoto had been with an NS-8 surveillance team returning from their assignment in Scandinavia, when an infected Russian SAM center shot their plane down killing most of those on board save the aforementioned officer. By the twisted hand of fate, Komanov had been assigned to correct that very SAM center's erring computer systems, and was seconds close to completing his task when that missile was launched. The first thing he saw upon exiting the facility was a ball of fire crashing several hundred yards south of his present location. Following instinct over intellect (as he always did), the NS-4 Operative proceeded to check the wreckage for survivors. He practically saved Yamamoto's life, and although neither could understand what the other was saying, everything was cleared out when through some miracle, they managed to get to NS-4's primary.

          "I couldn't tell… my linguistics training wasn't complete yet at the time and well…" he flushed with embarrassment, "I couldn't understand a thing he said. Looking back, though, I could remember a few sarcastic statements and quite a lot of 'I can't understand a damned thing you're saying!' in Japanese and English." The NS-4 Tamer forced a thoughtful look onto his face, "Although we managed to understand each other through sign language… I think." Karya laughed, "Well, once my linguistics training was completed, we began sending e-mail to each other, and now, I pretty much know him. He said he would be coming with his new partner, a Tamer just like us."

          "Big surprise…" the Iraqi refugee sarcastically commented. Weren't there enough Tamers on this pathetic excuse for a planet? She took another swig of the vodka. It was surprising that until now she still wasn't drunk. Her cheeks showed no signs of being flushed from whatever it was in liquor that caused them to go red. Neither was her voice slurred from all the drinking. She could swear that she had finished half of the thermos she carried; and to think that the blasted container had a capacity of up to three quarts. She had quite a threshold of withstanding drunkenness, especially since vodka was one of the most potent liquors on the market, next to tequila. "How much longer are we supposed to wait, anyway?"

          "The plane is due to arrive from Beijing any minute now…" Yuri had to admit, he was starting to lose his patience as well. He had been taught that the Earth rotated east around her axis at up to a thousand kilometers an hour, and that an average 757 could travel up to the same rate during a regular flight with no disturbances whatsoever. Thus, if a plane left from Beijing heading west toward Moscow, which was about 5000 kilometers from the former at a rate of a thousand miles an hour at 8PM, then it would land at Moscow International Airport at around 8:05PM of the local time zone. In short, time would've appeared to stand still, although it really didn't. It was simply the fact that the area in the sky that was being faced by Beijing five hours earlier was now being faced by Moscow. That was how he understood it.

          _"Flight H13MC now arriving from Beijing at Gate 11."_ That was all the information he needed.

          "That's our plane, Karya," Yuri started walking in the aforementioned gate's direction, "Let's go give our visitors from NS-8 a little greeting."

          "You don't have to tell me that," Hiakiim answered, "I know the flight number of the target plane as well." She stood up and followed the older boy, slinging the half-empty thermos of liquor over her right shoulder. She turned to look at the trash can thoughtfully, keeping eye on the stainless steel bin as though preparing to shoot it with a high caliber rifle. The NS-4 Tamer took another piece of paper from her coat pocket, crumpled it, and took one last toss at the said container before continuing on route to her current assignment. She didn't see the rutted ball of processed tree bark go straight into the garbage bin and make a slight 'clink' upon landing at the bottom.

Pier 17, Tokyo Harbor, Tokyo Bay Area

Wednesday, 1023 hours, Local Time…

          Late morning sunlight bounced off the surface of the sleek unmarked black van that rolled up this abandoned pier, stopping within just yards from the water's edge. The side door slid open, three men in black suits exiting. Ryo Akiyama looked back into the darkness of the vehicle, catching the feet that seemingly thrust themselves out at him. "Be careful with her, dammit!" he scolded whatever was inside, "She's a key player for Marlon's game!"

          "Sorry sir," the person still inside the van apologized. "I never thought she'd be _this_ heavy." The feet were followed by the legs, lower body, upper body, and finally, head of the body bag, which was being held up by another man in black. "Can she even breathe in there?"

          "She's clinically dead, you fool," Ryo reminded the agent, "Her heart won't start up until another ten minutes." This specific subject had been given a shot or two of what the Agency's labs called the 'Juliet' serum, namely because its effects were similar to the substance that Juliet Capulet of the famous Shakespearean Tragedy had taken in order to fake her death that she and Romeo might run away once she, so to speak, rose from the dead. Unfortunately, the servant whom Friar Laurence had sent to notify Romeo of this plan was quarantined due to some disease, and well, as Horus the Pharaoh's god might put it, one thing led to another. Romeo didn't know that Juliet was merely playing dead, and, in his desperation to be with her for eternity, drank some poison and died immediately afterward. When Juliet awoke, she saw her lover dead on the floor and ran herself through with her 'Happy Dagger'. Ryo smiled at the thought. _Why didn't they just call it the 'Happy Dagger'?_

          "Where do we put her, sir?" the agent holding the upper portion of the body bag asked. For someone of her age, the content of this black sac was quite heavy. One would wonder why, since, according to the hacked NS-8 profile, she was a vegetarian, as well as a person who laid off the sweets and meats. Her main source of protein was eggs and the occasional cricket crackers. Maybe it was just his imagination?

          "Just down here…" the two set the body down by the pier's edge, only a few feet from a drop into God knows how polluted water. "Once she wakes up, it won't be so hard to get out of there. The zipper's got a zip on both sides." Ryo took a small electronic device out of his pocket, placed it beside the bag, and switched it on.

          "What's that, sir?" another agent asked.

          "NS-8 tracking device. They'll have their search teams swarming all over this spot pretty soon." He sat down by the temporary cadaver and took a close scanned the black surface. "You guys go on ahead. I have some personal matters to attend to."

          "You sure about this, sir?" the lifter questioned Akiyama's sanity. After all, if what he was saying about the tracking device was true, then shouldn't he be worried about getting caught? It wasn't good to get caught. "Shouldn't we be getting out of here?"

          "Like I said… you guys go on ahead. I'll get back to HQ without getting caught." He turned back to the body bag and continued his strange activity of just staring at it in captivation, awe, and some other synonymous word that could possibly match how he felt at the moment. _You were always the strongest. Now how does it feel to be the most confused?_

          The three other Agency operatives merely looked at each other through their black tinted shades and through some miracle of chance, all shrugged simultaneously and got back into the van, closing the door prior to the said vehicle rolling out of sight, leaving the two behind to do whatever business the other wanted. "Sleep well, little pumpkin. You're going to need as much as you can get if you're going to live through this hell hole called life." He planted a soft kiss on what he assumed to be the cheek of the body inside. "I should be going now. Your buddies are coming to get you. You should consider yourself lucky that those guys at the airport didn't kill you, you know." He stood up and slowly walked away, vanishing without a trace.

          Within a few minutes of his departure, whatever… or whoever… was in the bag jerked its head upward, although it couldn't do so much as sit up, since, technically, it was an almost exact fit. The being inside panicked, and began groping along the insides of the container, searching for a means of escape. The fact that it was struggling a little bit too tensely proved that it believed that it could not breathe. It continued its seemingly eternal search for some opening, until finally, a few moments later, the body bag zipped open, and out burst a human head, gasping for air. Of course, simply calling it a human head would make the description too vague, thus it is required of me to further augment the picture. The person inside was sweaty, both cheeks puffed and flushed. Loose orange strands dangled from the sides of her head and a messed up ponytail, which could've been made neater if given more time. Rika Nonaka took long, deep breaths, thankful to be alive.

          The last thing she could remember was a slightly stinging sensation on her neck before she went out. She scanned her immediate vicinity, apparently surprised that it was far from the girls' room of Tokyo International Airport. What's more, when she realized what time of the day it was, she appeared to loose the last of her iron composure and screamed, clearly frustrated. "What in the screwed up hell happened here!?" She had to calm down. The worst thing to do in the middle of a field operation was to panic. She reached for the commlink in her ear, only to find out that it had somehow been removed. _Damn! I should've known!_

          The NS-8 officer searched the area for anything whatsoever that could be used as a means of communication. To her disdain, however, nothing turned up. Rika sighed, defeated, as she stood up and figured that walking wasn't such bad exercise. Although that option had left her as quickly as it had come, since it would definitely be odd to see a teenager dressed in a business suit and high heeled shoes to be jogging at what? 10, 11AM? She noticed a faint, almost inaudible, yet consistent beeping. Doing one last sweep, her lavender irises were drawn to the source of the sound: a small electronic device, apparently planted conveniently beside her body bag. "A tracking device?"

          Upon closer inspection, i.e. some tinkering with the device's satellite connection via palm pilot, she was able to determine that the signal that her little doohickey was projecting was programmed to tap into, and only into, Network Security's satellite tracking system. They set her up, it appears. "Well, that settles it…" if this tracking device was visible only to NS-8's eyes, then that meant they probably had a team on the way to investigate it as well. "I'll just wait for them right _here_."

Director's Office, NS-4 Headquarters, Sub-Level 8 of the Kremlin, Moscow

Wednesday, 0338 hours, Local Time…

          Tezansky's office was the perfect display of his patriotism for his country. The first thing that one would notice upon entering the NS-4 Director's room of operations would be the golden hammer and sickle posted onto a crimson background located behind his desk. Tezansky himself sat on a plush, fur-coated roller chair behind the ornately crafted oak desk, bent over the virtual stack of reports on Russia's currently increasing involvement with the Global Internet Community that was plastered to his Personal Terminal's screen. On the varnished surface stood a brass Cossack cavalier, his steed's forelegs raised up in what appeared to be a forward charge. The three-inch-high warrior held up in a defiant manner, a ring pommel saber, prepared to lead his battalion into the messy pile of paperwork and other related office materials that lay in front of him. Beside him lay a classic smoking pipe, the soft gray particles rising out ever so slowly.

Although it was pretty much an interesting sight to see a Russian horseman preparing to battle to the death with a clutter of processed tree bark, plastic, and paperclips, Hiroshi Yamamoto was more focused on the national emblem that resided behind the gruffly bearded man. "Here in Mother Russia, people consider red as color of beauty, life, and honor… pretty much as strange to you as how white in China is color of death..."

          _The old man's still sharp…_ He'd caught on to what Yamamoto was thinking even before he said it. "Colors are a very subjective topic, Mr. Tezansky." The NS-8 Officer replied as he stepped in, Takato not far behind. "You mind giving us some more details on our assignment?"

          "Of course," the Russian replied in somewhat crooked English, never taking his eyes off the computer screen, "Get a seat…" Although it would've been easier for Tezansky to address the shades-clad agent in Japanese (since Tezansky had mastery over a wide variety of languages with the exception of English), it had been with deepest regret that he had to succumb to a 7:5 poll result during an E-12 meeting on whether or not English should be used for international affairs. Obviously enough, he was one of the five who detested and lost. It couldn't be helped. The Executive Twelve was composed of an American General, a Canadian Mountee, two Australian SEALS, a German Bureaucrat, a Japanese Banker, a retired Russian Intelligence Director, a Chinese Capitalist, a Brazilian Commander, a Peruvian Politician, a Pharaoh's Descendant, and a reformed Somali Warlord. Sakamori just _had_ to side with the damned Westerners and approve the use of English as the official medium for international affairs.

          _Shouldn't that be 'Have a seat?'_ was what Yamamoto had in mind to say to the former KGB Director, although it was a polite "Thank you," that escaped his lips before he even noticed. He guided his partner to one of the two seats that rest in front of the Russian-made desk, noting the fine red carpet that spanned the distance between them and the sliding door. He could've sworn that this room was within the Kremlin itself and not a facility beneath it, had it not been for the transparent glass portal that separated them from the rest of NS-4's proper. This was because even within their own citadel, the Russians still practiced the Iron Curtain policy.

          "I will get straight to point, Agent Yamamoto," the Russian started as he at last looked up from the view screen, his face reflecting its eerie blue glow even in the white light of the room. "We are running out of leads here. Agency's meeting could take place anywhere between Thursday and Saturday. We only have 20 hours to find out when, and where."

          "And you want us to aid in searching for more leads?" Takato answered with some anticipation. Both speakers' English dialects were pretty bad, specifically Tezansky's lack of several prepositions, and Takato's problem in switching 'l' and 'r'…

          "Actually, I do not want you to help in searching for more '_reads_', Agent Matsuki, I want you to help Yuri track down his last and by far, most reliable _lead_." Tezansky was apparently one to talk. He already had his own problems with English grammar, now he was criticizing another beginner's accent when speaking it. "And in case you are still wondering why your partner is been sucked back into Digital World after D-Reaper's second dormancy is began, I can offer explanation." The NS-4 Director took a disc out of one of the desk's drawers, handing it over to the teenager. "Just check when you get home."

          "So, what exactly are we here for?" Yamamoto tried to return the discussion to its original course before the main topic became the 'Critique of Non-American Accents When Speaking English'.

          "Of course… Virgin, would you please start the projector?" The room's lights dimmed immediately after this was said, and a white screen proceeded to lower itself behind Tezansky's chair. The aforementioned character moved aside, of course, bringing out a laser pointer as a projector sent a photograph of a nervous middle-aged man to the clean surface. The laser pointer was aimed comically at the man's right nostril, giving the impression that Tezansky wanted to stick some kind of medical instrument inside and gouge out all of the dried mucus that resided there. "This is Dmittri Klevyorodov. He is Agency Russia Branch's Deputy Director… a candidate for defecting to NS-4 in exchange for protection of his family, and is willing to provide us with information that we want."

          "So this is the next lead?" Yamamoto carefully scrutinized the man: shifty eyes, boot-shaped pockmark on the left cheek, big nose with at least a dozen strands of hair sticking out, graying mustache, brown beret… _How old is this guy? 40? 45?_ Whatever the case, he looked like your average escaped convict. Well, at least like your average Western escape convict. In Russia, he looked just like everybody else; everybody descended from the clan of Gog of Magog, that is.

          "Are you kidding me?" the Russian chuckled heartily, "He is not _just_ next lead! He is last lead!"

          "The last?" Yamamoto was dumbstruck… NS-4, the most advanced Eastern European security agency in terms of technology and manpower, was betting every last ruble in its pockets on a lead that was most likely a trap. "But isn't it a little suspicious that he's given you all this important information, but hasn't defected yet? What if he's just a pseudo defector?"

          "I requested him to stay in 'service' of Agency, relaying several key data discs to us… recently, however, he is under suspicion and is trying to keep low profile… Dmittri has agreed to meet Yuri at the Kevalio Strip Club in Stukariy district around 5AM today… You two will secure back door of club in case he decides to back out and try to exit that way." Tezansky took his pipe and began to smoke. "This I prefer to cigars and cigarettes. At least you do not need to throw away a pipe when you are done smoking…"

          A blonde, casually dressed agent stepped into the room, a small brown and pink rabbit not far behind him. "You asked to see me, sir?" He was about 16, 5 feet 9 in height, and dressed in a green jacket, inside of which was a matching yellow shirt and slacks. His hair was slightly ruffled, a few brownish strands here and there. Clipped to his belt, one could not be mistaken, was a rust colored Arc, apparently shined for some reason.

          "Da, Boris. Sit down." The aforementioned Tamer took another seat from the side of the office and sat down between the two NS-4 Officers, casually taking a bottle of 'Minsk Xtra Strength Hair Gel' from his jacket pocket and applied it on his low-hanging bangs, straightening it out. "Agent Yamamoto, Agent Matsuda, I would like you to meet Boris Divvski, NS-4's second Tamer. He will be accompanying you two at back of club. Now go… we only have an hour before meeting."

          "So you're the Agent Yamamoto that Yuri has been fascinating Karya all of the time since you met, eh?" Divskki eyed the NS-8 Agent scrupulously. "You don't look like much, but apparently, you have her captivated." He thrust an offending finger into Yamamoto's chest, slightly pushing the man backward, "But remember this… Karya is _my_ girl. Stay away from her."

          Yamamoto didn't flinch at the verbal assault, remaining as stoic as he seemed to always be behind those dark, tinted sunglasses of his. "I have no idea of what you're talking about." Although sometimes a joker at NS-8, outside, he was as cold as an ice cube on a snowy winter evening. "Agent Hiakiim simply wanted to hear some stories about my operations, that's all."

          "Ya think maybe he's just doing what he says he's doing, Boris?" the brown and pink rabbit piped. Lopmon wasn't much of a person to pay attention to conversations such as this one, although an occasional opinion would surface from the confines of his brain from time to time. Tezansky had assigned him to watch over Boris ever since his recruitment into NS-4, and so far, they've been getting along quite fine; bonding, in fact, was a highly accurate word to describe their relationship. When was this truly shown? Battles, of course. They would always merge at once, jumping directly to Lopmon's Mega form, Kerpymon. Although, it caused a lot of ruckus, NS-4 has somehow kept the media under tabs. Maybe it was because most of the incidents occurred inside warp fields?

          "Maybe…" Boris' finger retreated from Yamamoto's physique. "Sorry about that, I don't know what came over me."

          Yamamoto merely dusted himself, "No harm done… by the way, have you met my partner yet? This is Takato Matsuki. If you recall, he's one of the Tamers who aided in the containment of D-Reaper."

          "You know, my friend's sister used to have a Lopmon too…" Takato started.

          "What happened to him?" Boris asked, intrigued by the incidence. Somehow, however, Lopmon knew what the teenager was going to say.

          "Got sucked back into the Digital World with the rest of our partners. I don't think she ever got over it, though."

          "That's sad…" Boris might not have had any experience concerning the loss of his partner, although he did try to imagine how it felt to lose Lopmon… It ended up as a somewhat bittersweet hypothetical situation.

          "I'll tell you more about it on the way to the club."

Director's Office, 14th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Wednesday, 1146 hours, Local Time…

"Welcome back, Rika," Akira Sakamori stated as the aforementioned Tamer stepped into his office and sat down on one of the chairs in front of his desk. "I assume you managed to get away from your captors somehow. Tell me… what exactly happened?"

          Rika Nonaka thought for a moment, racking her brains for an answer. Not that she had any to give, anyway. She had no recollection whatsoever of what they did to her those past 12 hours. Gods knew if they cut her into pieces and put her back together using advanced laser surgical technology, or if they used some kind of 'sleeper' brainwashing method on her. It was the kind wherein you were hypnotized and ordered to forget the whole thing until a specific person mentioned a certain 'activation' word, or statement, placing you under the person's control. "Not much to say, actually, sir…"

          "What does that mean?" his left eyebrow went up.

          "I don't remember a damned thing… after the airport… they drugged me." She rubbed the side of her neck to emphasize where she was hit. "And Shinigami… he's dead." Her eyes shifted downwards. She was ashamed to have lost a good man, not to mention the fact that Shinigami was her responsibility. _Looks like I blew this one_. "I knew I should've gone in alone."

          "And who knows what could've happened to you if you did," the NS-8 Director answered reassuringly. "I'm just glad you're alive, that's all. You're like a daughter to me, Rika. Remember that. I can't possibly stand losing you in whatever situation that might occur." Through a security camera that was mounted on the top corner of the room, the Virtual Digital Nexus studied both humans' stress and tension levels, silently trying to understand the deeper meaning of certain keywords stated during the conversation.

VOCABULARY ENTRY: GLAD…

STANDING BY FOR DEFINITION ACQUISITION…

DEFINITION ACQUIRED…

GLAD: ADJECTIVE… EXPERIENCING OR EXHIBITING JOY OR PLEASURE… PROVIDING JOY AND PLEASURE… PLEASED… WILLING… ARCHAIC: OF A CHEERFUL DISPOSITION…

RELEVANCE OF KEYWORD TO CONVERSATION: 96.831 PERCENT…

          "How can I forget?" the Digimon Queen replied in a somewhat gentle vocalization. "After what happened that night… that night I almost died…" her eyes darkened. " You saved my life, sir… I can never hope to repay what you've—"

          "I told you already, Rika." Sakamori interjected, "What I've done for you doesn't deserve any merit whatsoever… I was only doing what anybody would've done. Put yourself in my shoes for a minute… You don't have any debts for my saving your life. You simply deserve to live on. That's why I did it in the first place."

          "Yes sir…"

VOCABULARY ENTRY: DAUGHTER…

STANDING BY FOR DEFINITION ACQUISITION…

DEFINITION ACQUIRED…

DAUGHTER: NOUN… ONE'S FEMALE CHILD… A FEMALE DESCENDANT… A GIRL OR WOMAN CONSIDERED AS IF IN A RELATIONSHIP OF CHILD TO PARENT… ANYTHING PERSONIFIED OR REGARDED AS A FEMALE DESCENDANT… MIDDLE ENGLISH: DOUGHTER… OLD ENGLISH: DOHTOR…

RELEVANCE OF KEYWORD TO CONVERSATION: 87.342 PERCENT…

          "Whatever the Agency did to you last night… it won't get past the medical examination. Sazaki will be in charge of finding out just what happened to you." He took a sip from the omnipresent mug of coffee that always seemed to magically refill itself whenever it was on his glass desk. "Tell me… what do you remember of… your mother?"

VOCABULARY ENTRY: MOTHER…

STANDING BY FOR DEFINITION ACQUISITION…

DEFINITION ACQUIRED…

MOTHER: NOUN… A FEMALE THAT HAS BORNE AN OFFSPRING… A FEMALE WHO HAS ADOPTED A CHILD OR OTHERWISE ESTABLISHED A MATERNAL RELATIONSHIP WITH ANOTHER PERSON… A CREATIVE OR ENVIRONMENTAL SOURCE… A WOMAN HAVING SOME OF THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF A MOTHER… QUALITIES ATTRIBUTED TO A MOTHER SUCH AS THE CAPACITY TO LOVE… AN AFFECTIONATE FAMILIAR TERM FOR ADDRESSING AN ELDERLY WOMAN…

RELEVANCE OF KEYWORD TO CONVERSATION: 11.762 PERCENT…

          "Well, she's a popular supermodel…" she thought for one of her many nicknames that her boss could possibly have heard. November Nonaka, Rumiko of the Monsoon, or even… "Ever heard of 'Sweetie Ruu'?" Sakamori's somewhat dumbstruck reaction to her statement puzzled her. "What? Did I offend you in any way? You don't like supermodels, do you?"

          "No, it's not that, it's just…" he hesitated enough to allow the sudden outburst from his intercom actually sound surprising to both of them.

          "Sir, you have a call from Intelligence Section," came the eerily cheerful female operator, "I think it's about your wife…"

          "Your wife?" Rika's eyebrow rose, as well as her curiosity. "You never did tell me about your wife."

          "Place it on hold for a while," the NS-8 Director ordered the secretary, apparently trying to wrap up what was left of their conversation now. "Listen, Rika… What I'm about to discuss with Intelligence Section is a somewhat… personal matter," he noticed the redhead nod slightly, "I think you should go see Sazaki for that medical examination in the meantime. Don't worry, though. We _will_ finish this discussion today."

          "Yes sir…" she stood up to leave, nodding before turning around and waltzing out of the sliding glass door.

          As soon as he was sure that the former Tamer was out of earshot, Akira Sakamori hurriedly punched on the intercom, eager to find out just what exactly Intelligence Section had dug up about his wife who had disappeared so long ago. "Patch it through."

          The next voice heard was the typical emotionless 'recording' that came from most agents, "Sir, I think I found something interesting about both your wife _and_ Agent Nonaka's family."

          "Really now?" his disbelief was obviously broken at that sarcastic statement to the point that it didn't even sound sarcastic, "Why don't you fill me in on it, eh, Ishida?"

          "Well sir, does Seiko Nanaoki ring a bell?" Ishida just loved to play guessing games to start up his little yet important information releases, and Sakamori was his favorite player, since he got at least one question right practically all the time.

          "Of course it does, Ishida!" Sakamori exclaimed as though the man he was talking to on the other line was a fool who didn't understand a word he said, "She's my missing wife!" His exasperation was evidently building up. "Why do you keep asking me these ridiculous questions anyway!?"

          "Calm down sir," Ishida prompted. If he was going to let this information out, a calm and collective listener, not some raving maniac should take it. "Well, as you know, your wife and daughter moved out of your place and somewhere into West Shinjuku where we lost them about some 30 years ago, right?"

          "Tell me what else is new…" that statement was wholly sarcastic, showing the fact that Sakamori felt this was going to be another segment of the wild goose chase he'd had them go on for the past 30 years.

          "Well, my team and I decided to do something entirely unheard of!" Ishida sounded like the next thing that was going to come out of his mouth was a corny joke, "We decided to hack into the government census archives—I know, sir, it sounds stupid since we don't have clearance of any sort, but we just had to do it for your sake."

          "Go on…"

          "We searched for a Seiko and Rumiko Nanaoki in the archives. We didn't find them, but there was one entry under 'N' that had such a striking resemblance to your 'case' that we figured it could only be an alias or anagram at least. Sir, it's Nonaka. That's the only entry under 'N' where we found one female senior citizen and another female in her prime." This definitely raised Sakamori's lost interest in the discussion. _Could it be?_ He had tackled the possibility in his mind before; although the lack of evidence broke his will to even continue considering that somehow, Rika was related to his Ruu, or even him. "They also live somewhere in the West Shinjuku district. Sir, it was just a hunch, but we had an intelligence team dig their place up last week when both were out."

          "And you found?"

          "Well, she's discarded most of whatever you gave her… except this little picture she keeps in her closet. Judging from the fingerprints and smudges, I'd say she's regretting having left you to do your job, sir. She misses you A LOT. Another thing we found really interested me, though…"

          "And what would that be?"

          "We found another picture sir. Apparently, there was a third resident who moved in about, what, 18 years ago? Although we don't have any evidence whatsoever to prove she actually lived there, the picture said it all. Your little Ruu has… or at least… had a daughter, a harsh-looking redhead. Does _that_ ring a bell?"

          Sakamori was struck by lightning. Never before did he actually assume something as deep, but the evidence was clear. Rika Nonaka, the woman whose eyes he compared to that of his missing daughter, _did_ have the eyes of his missing daughter, or rather, had inherited them from her. This was something big. But how could he possibly tell her? How would she react? Would she accept him? Disown him? _Hate_ him? "Actually, it does… anything else?"

          "I have a team investigating her daily habits as we speak… I'll have to get back to you on that." Ishida had to admit; NS-8's Intelligence Section did have its basis in the CIA, where he was formerly assigned. Their methods were the most effective there were thus far, although that didn't ensure 100 percent accuracy all of the time.

          "Just tell me about it when I'm free, say, while I'm shopping for goods this afternoon."

          "Yes sir…" with that statement, the commlink was cut, and Sakamori was left alone, Virgin's prying camera lens still focused on him.

          "Sir?" the virtual sentience finally spoke up, "How is having a daughter relevant to happiness?"

          Sakamori hated the extra lack of privacy, but what could he do? It was like the UN was paranoid or something. Not everybody was an Agency Operative in disguise waiting for them to screw up… some people like him were true to their jobs. "_That_ is going to take _much_ time to explain, I'm afraid," he said with a chuckle, "So we might as well start now."

Kevalio Strip Club, Stukariy District, Moscow

Wednesday, 0513 hours, Local Time…

          The distinct odors of cigar tobacco mixed with the powerful smells of feminine perfumes, as well as the ever-present vapors of that all-time favorite Russian liquor called Vodka, filled the chamber. Why feminine perfumes? One could've asked the skimpily-clad strip pole dancers who banged their iron stage… poles… as to why even bother putting on that artificial crap when the natural scents of sweat and estrogen were enough. Of course, that would've resulted as a painful slap to the cheek on whoever was candid enough to ask such a ridiculous question. Sensual music filled the air, along with the rowdy cheers of patrons as well as first time customers, cheering these probably homeless women as they… (pardon the pun) stripped on down.

          Not too far from the stage was the counter, where several of the women's (and the drinks') patrons sat, raising frothy mugs of beer and God knows what other kinds of alcoholic beverages as they cheered the entertainers on… all except one, though. He was sitting quietly on the side of the counter farthest from the stage, his back to the 'entertainment committee' who by this time only had their… ahem 'special places' left to hide. He ignored the music, the women, the yells, and the occasional 'ooh' or 'ah' that majority of the club's male occupants let out as he quietly gulped down a glass of hard Vodka on the rocks. He knew just about everybody there, although he didn't bother to talk with anyone. Although most came here to see the strippers make a living of show their hooters off, he came for the simple pleasure of having at least half a dozen glasses of whatever the house had to offer.

A dirt brown beret rested on his head, purple jacket emphasizing his stocky build. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead as he top-bottomed his glass. Apparently, it was far from his first drink. "Hit me again, Ivan," he called out to the typical mustached bartender who was wiping the inside of a glass. "The Whisky this time…" His familiarity with the bartender's, and the manner in which the bartender reacted to his request proved that Beret was a regular patron of his club.

'Bart', as most of the patrons knew him, obliged to the order, popping open a bottle and pouring its contents into the glass that he was previously wiping. It was funny enough that they called him Bart, since his real name was Ivan, but that didn't seem to bother him at all. Placing the ¾ filled glass on the counter, he slid it in the bereted man's direction, his customer catching it with marksman's accuracy.

          Beret sipped yet again, swirling the remainder of the contents around somewhat sentimentally, amused by the sound that the ice cubes made whenever they hit each other. He felt a presence make itself known to him; sitting on a stool to his right almost immediately after its former occupant grew tired of seeing boobs and pubes and left. He could tell from the sound and somewhat lightness of the weight shift that his new 'companion' was both young and female. "This is not the place for women or children… or do you simply think that a combination of both can pass the security check at the entrance? How did you get in?"

          "The same way militiamen do," she replied, apparently trying to disguise her voice into one more masculine by lowering its tones. "Do you actually think that NS-4 is so secret that its operatives have no universal security clearance whatsoever?" Beret remained silent. "I thought so." She signaled to Bart by raising her index finger, "Get me a Vodka… on ice, not diluted. I want it _crude_."

          Bart, or Ivan, rather, raised his eyebrow at the order given by someone, who with respect to height was 14 at the most. Then again, how could a minor have gotten through the security check? That could only mean one of two things: either this person was a minor who snuck in, or he was a 23-year-old adult who was simply diseased with some ailment that killed his pituitary gland or something. The bartender couldn't tell, since the Cossack fur hat, sunglasses, flu mask and trench coat completely hid his age and identity, moreover gender. Although, he could tell that this customer was at least Caucasian, due to some pale-brown locks that dared to escape his cap.

          Bart's hesitation somewhat irritated this new customer, "What are you waiting for? Is there something you did not hear clearly? I said Vodka, on ice, not diluted… _crude_." The bartender immediately complied, sliding the freshly filled intoxicated glass of liquor at Cap, only to be taken by somebody else. Now whoever this individual was, he was definitely an adult _and_ a man. Although, the excessively scarlet color of his oddly done hair along with staggeringly emerald eyes gave Bart the impression that he was a character straight out of a Japanese anime.

          Upon catching the drink, Red didn't hesitate at all to swirl the glass' contents before taking a sip, which irritated Cap even more. "You never did tell me you had such a high tolerance for alcohol, my dear. Was _this_ the French Soda you carried in your thermos all the time?" He smirked as he went bottoms up, practically smashing the glass onto the countertop, feverishly shaking his head as though he'd just submerged his face in a tub of ice cold water and pulled it out. "So Dmittri…" he shifted his attention to Beret, who by this time, had given up on drinking, staring blankly at the collection of liquor bottles that lay untouched across the counter. " What can you tell us about the meeting of D-Tech's board of directors?"

          "More specifically," Cap added, "When and where here in Moscow?" She signaled Bart for another glass, this time, to be brought to her personally, thus preventing Red from taking _her_ share of alcohol. The bartender took the 'second serving', tossing in a couple of ice cubes, pouring into a shot glass the clear fluid, from which came its name vodka, meaning 'little water' in Russian. He then handed it over to his height-deprived customer, who savored its scent for a few moments just before practically dumping everything save the glass and ice cubes down her throat. Wiping her somewhat satisfied smile free of any fluid whatsoever that might have spilled onto her lips with her trench coat's sleeve, she brought the tiny glass down onto the counter, smirking as she said, "One more…" in as masculine a voice she could.

          Beret, or Dmittri, rather, slowly brought his left index finger up to his lips in a silencing gesture. "See the two men at the table behind us?" he pointed his thumb in the said table's direction, where two burly Russian men in black business suits and sunglasses sat, boisterously arguing about which stripper had the biggest and shakiest tits. "They are Agency Operatives who are supposed to be my bodyguards and yet are too stupid to even notice that I'm talking to our enemies…" he pinched his graying mustache, rubbing it between his two fingers.

          "You realize that by even doing so much as associating with us, you are branding yourself as one of their enemies as well," Red pointed out. "Now are you going to give us the time and place of your superiors' meeting or not?" this was said in a somewhat irritated manner, giving Dmittri the impression that his questioner was ill experienced in these kinds of situations.

          _They don't teach them like they used to…_ What a delicate transaction such as this one needed was patience. You wouldn't want the squealer's custodians to notice any change in their charge's routine, especially if you were in such a vulnerable state. "Patience, young one… the battle of Leningrad wasn't won in a day, you know…" This statement was indeed a fact, since the fabled battle started on August 24, 1942 and lasted until February 2, 1943, approximately five months, a week, and two days. Gods knew what General Paulus, or Field Marshal, rather, since Hitler promoted him on the spot the day before his surrender, was thinking when he raised the white flag up at the victorious forces of Marshal Zhukov. _The fool was probably cowering in a wrecked house when the Soviets came marching in victoriously…_

          "Alright, then, Klevyorodov, I'll play along with your little game…" Red signaled to Bart, who, by this time, was filling Cap's third glass. "Get me a Levinskiy, and another Whisky for my friend here." Bart handed Cap her precious 'French Soda' and proceeded with his next order. The biggest advantage of having this kind of conversation in a highly renowned strip club, if ever such a place existed, was that the audience's cheering never stopped because of at least three sets of half a dozen strip and pole dancers who enticed their howling to muffle any sound less than 80 decibels. "I appreciate the risks you're taking in order to help us out—"

          Dmittri cut him off, "You're appreciating the risks _I'm _taking? I should be the one thanking you for taking these risks. I don't really care about what they do to me, but just promise me that if anything does happen, you will keep my dearest Natasha and Galena safe." The Agency Deputy Director sipped his share of liquor, and looked back at his bodyguards, a pleased smile appearing on his face as he saw that they were still ogling at those bimbos on the stage.

          Cap was astonished at this man's selflessness, "And to think I thought that everyone who worked for the Agency was a self-centered bastard who worked for nothing more than his personal success." She gulped down her fifth glass, cheeks not showing the slightest sign of redness. "So are you talking or not?"

          Although the inside of the club was warm and cozy, just outside its back door was at least three inches worth of snow. Takato Matsuki shivered inside his sneaking suit. He knew that Russia was going to be cold, but he didn't expect the back alley of some wretched strip club to be _this_ cold. He stole a glance at his partner, who was apparently used to these kinds of temperatures. He didn't know much about Yamamoto, although the latter had been kind enough to tell him how he'd spent some days in Russia after surviving a plane crash caused by a Reaper-infected SAM site. "S… s… so… what exactly is taking them so long?"

          "Who knows…" the NS-8 Officer stoically replied, "Maybe Klevyorodov is just stalling. For all we know, the whole thing might be a setup and at least a dozen Agency Operatives are headed this way as we speak."

          "Or maybe Karya has gotten into another one of her 'French Soda' drinking games," Boris commented sarcastically. His active involvement with the aforementioned Tamer's social life had brought about at least one 'kiss the girl' moment, although he usually backed out since she smelled like liquor. It was no mystery of how somehow he'd figured out that the thermos full of 'French Soda' was really full of 'little water'.

          "Jack-en-poi!" Since technically, 'pets' weren't allowed in the strip club, Agumon and Gabumon had to content themselves with a little child's game of rock-paper-scissors. Lopmon had placed himself on Boris' head, trying to figure out what made the Xtra Strength Hair Gel so darned extra effective. Boris didn't even bother brushing his partner off, since he _was_ wearing extra strength hair gel after all.

          "This is starting to bore me, Boris…" Lopmon complained, "Just tell me how this stuff turns hair into halberds."

          "Figure it out…"

          _I really wish Guilmon was here right now…_ Takato really needed someone to talk to. The people (Digimon included) who were present at the moment were definitely hard to reach. On one hand, his partner was as stiff as some kind of stone monument. On the other, he was faced with three bothersome Digimon and an extremely vain hair gel jock. Even the guys back at NS-8 didn't talk to him at all. Rika, on a third hand that shouldn't have been there, was rather cold and shut again, no thanks to his big mouth that seemingly asked nobody on how Renamon was doing quite a few times whenever they met.

 _Bang!_ The eruption of gunshots and screams inside the building jolted him out of his musings. Reflexively, or rather, in the manner NS-8 had trained him, he drew his own pistol from its holster. He looked at Yamamoto, searching for a signal on the shades-clad agent's face for any signal to move in, but found nothing. Boris seemed distracted, now trying to rip his partner off his head in attempts to fix his hair before getting his gun. Yamamoto didn't seem to flinch at all. It was as though he was expecting this to happen and didn't care about the results. "They'll make it. Yuri is a professional at surviving and Karya grew up fighting on the streets."

          The sudden mention of Karya snatched Boris' attention and he suddenly whirred around to face the NS-8 officer, causing Lopmon to fall off his head bringing some loose strands with him. "What did you say!?" he went, somewhat agitatedly.

          "You're too edgy, you know that, Agent Divvski? I was only stating a fact." Sudden movement at the back door caused the agent to draw his own sidearm and aim dead straight at the doorway. "Who's there?"

          "Look who's too edgy," a familiar voice humored. Three shadows appeared in the doorway. Apparently, two people were holding a third up by his arms as they exited. Yuri Komanov, Karya Hiakiim, and the third man, the guy from Tezansky's briefing, emerged from the shadow of the hallway. It looked as though the third was shot, two crimson holes in his purple jacket. The NS-4 Agents laid him on his back on the snow.

          "What happened in there?" Takato rushed over to see if the man was still breathing.

          "Apparently, Klevyorodov's bodyguards were lousy drinkers and started shooting the place up when they started to argue about something…" Karya smiled like she was mocking their tolerance of alcoholic beverages. "Dmittri here got shot twice and we _had_ to bring him out here."

          "They didn't bother with you?" Yamamoto seemed surprised.

          "Nah, they were too busy shooting each other—"

          "The Uleslovik Clubhouse…" Dmittri struggled to say as he saw his world darkening. "Tonight at 7PM… they will be heavily guarded with agents on the rooftops and streets…" He forcibly coughed out some blood, "Second floor has been booked by private party… _them_…" The Agency Deputy Director turned to face Yuri, "Remember your promise…" He reached into his jacket pocket and with the last of his strength, tried to hand the scarlet-haired Tamer a 5x8 piece of photographic paper, "Take care of… Natasha… and Galena…" His hand fell, cold, onto the snow, just as Yuri received the article.

          He turned it around to see a black and white picture of a cultured middle-aged woman and her seven-year-old daughter. Yuri glanced at the unmoving beret-clad man and placed his fingers at his neck to check for pulse. The gunfire of the dueling drunken Agency Operatives continued to echo from inside the hall. By this time, the screams had died down, followed by the addition of the sounds at least two other guns into the fray, most probably the bar owner and that stupid security guard who couldn't tell the difference between a 13-year-old girl and a 23-year-old guy with a pituitary disease. Yuri shook his head as he turned back to the other people present; eerily similar to the way a surgeon comes fresh out of the Operating Room to announce his patient's fate. "He's dead…"

Aisle 26, Hakura Supermarket, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Wednesday, 1628 hours, Local Time…

          _"Tadaki! Clean up on Aisle 19! Move it!"_ The loudspeakers barked out. For the employees at Hakura Supermarket, it was another exciting day of working, cleaning messes that the shoppers are guilty of causing, smiling at everybody they saw, and of course, standing at the cash register doing nothing but counting money. For others, it was a day of getting one of the necessities of life: food and maybe some drink.

Akira Sakamori picked a 2 Liter bottle of Prune Juice off the shelf and placed it conveniently into his shopping cart. What better way to spend one's afternoon than a stress-relieving period of shopping? Not many things, really. Well, for one thing, he could've just stayed at NS-8, hoping to increase Virgin's understanding of humans by even a trickle more, although he doubted that it was a better way to spend his afternoon than this. He fished a liter pack of iced tea powder off the shelf and carefully positioned it in the back of the half-filled cart.

          What other commodities populated this means of transporting food and goods to the cashier, you ask? Inside was approximately two kilos' worth of potatoes, some oranges, apples, about a liter of milk, an assortment of vegetables including peas, carrots, tomatoes, and the like, along with a few kilograms worth of meat such as beef, pork, chicken, etc.

Nonaka had been dismissed to her quarters earlier after her medical exam, as Sazaki had reported. Apparently, nothing was out of the ordinary. Every part of her was in perfect working order, perfect condition. Well, save several milliliters of an almost completely fragmented drug of some sort, most probably the sedative used to keep her down and out for those 12 hours, as well as some sort of microscopic 'clot' made of some unidentifiable material in one of her arteries that never did seem to come to their attention.

Aya said that she would have to take it out in order to do a more comprehensive analysis, although the requirement of a surgical removal and the fact that Sakamori deemed the clot as unimportant was more than enough to convince the enthusiastic Optec supervisor to stand down. _What could they have possibly done to her that would pass by a med exam? _His speculations drifted over to the possibility of brainwash, or perhaps, hypnotic imprinting. Rika would have to go through psychological examination before he'd send her on any more assignments… just to make sure that she wasn't already turned.

          He rounded a corner into another aisle passing by a pyramid of canned Vienna Sausages on the way, beside which stood a sign officially putting them on sale with 25% off. What was the use of such procedures anyway if their only purpose was to get rid of too many units in stock?

The NS-8 Director picked out a can of herring fillets soaked in Sĕpĥaģün sauce, checking the fat content, although he found one major complication: even though it was of an international brand, the only translations of its nutrient contents were written in English, Spanish, Italian, German, Indian, Malay, and Russian. "What about Japanese? It's not like Malaysia is the official Asian superpower…" he complained in a murmur. Not even the instructions on preparation were legible. He'd have to give its manufacturer a call some time and explain the fact that if they were going to translate the instructions into Asian, they should make the selected language Japanese, or even Chinese, at the very least.

          He shook his head as he placed the herring back onto the shelf and replaced it with a more local brand of canned fish, more specifically, some tuna (do they sell canned tuna in Japan?). Yes sir, there was no other activity at all that was more relaxing to him than shopping for the week's supplies. All the food in the supermarket seemed to give out a calming effect, somewhat hard to understand except to those who knew the so-called 'true essence' of shopping for goods.

          Sadly, of course, this period of tranquil bliss had to end sometime… more precisely, the moment his commlink chirped, "Sakamori… what's the situation?"

          Yet again, as always, he was answered by the cheery female NS-8 operator, "Sir, you have a call. It's Director Ishida from Intelligence Section… something about your wife… he sounds pretty excited, sir."

          "Alright… patch him through." That was when he remembered having offered his shopping time to Ishida for any updates concerning his spouse and daughter's situation. He heard the click of the transmission's reconnection, and, when sure of who was on the other line, spoke up, "Status of the investigation?"

          "Well, sir, the Intelligence Teams have reported in and apparently, you've been getting within thirty feet of your wife every week without knowing it for the past 30 years." Ishida had set up a reputation for being a joker, and apparently, Sakamori didn't find this joke the slightest bit funny.

          He lifted two bunches of grapes from the food chiller on Aisle 24, trying to decide which would look better in his living room's fruit basket, "What the hell are you talking about, Ishida? I haven't even felt her presence in my gut… and I know I can trust my gut."

          "It's possible that your gut was always distracted by something else, sir… like all the food and goods you have to lay your eyes on weekly." Sakamori tensed. There was something in that joke that caused him to take it more seriously than what was intended. "I'm talking about the supermarket, sir. The Intelligence Teams have confirmed that your wife shops at Hakura every Wednesday around this time. Coincidence? Or fate?"

          The NS-8 Director's temper neared boiling point… this joke was definitely going too far, "Ishida, I told you to give me an actual report, not a crank call. I want absolute proof. Now where is it?" His pace started to quicken as his body began to believe what his mind rejected as fantasy. It was like he was searching for someone.

          "Sir, this is a big example of serendipity. The Intelligence Teams checked out some of the supermarket's surveillance camera tapes in order to see whether or not you were being tracked, ran a profile scan on everybody who always appeared in the same camera frame as you did. They found out that a certain Seiko Nonaka passed by the chiller on Aisle 23 in every recording, picking out some citrus goodies for some reason.

          "If you're bullshitting me, Ishida, you know that's going to come out of your salary—" his statement was cut short as his cart crashed into that of somebody who was apparently heading in his direction. All of his goods as well as the ones in the other person's lug spilled onto the floor. He quickly scrambled to pick up the one's belonging to the other person, since, he knew it was his fault, and help her put them back into the stainless steel container, "I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't looking at where I was headed…"

          "That's alright," the woman answered. Sakamori could swear he'd heard that voice somewhere before, "It happens to me at least twice a month… I'm quite the clumsy one, actually." She laughed.

He stood and dusted himself, noting that she was dressed in a yellow kimono. Looking further up, his eyes laid themselves on a face that had seemed to be the object of his dreams for so long, short-cut graying brown hair, several white strands already present. Now he was certain 0that Ishida wasn't joking at all, "Seiko…"

          Realization struck the person being addressed. Here, standing in front of her right now, was the man whom she'd prematurely left behind because of some foolish reason. She never did know the full importance of his job, whether he was the Bank's President, or just a banker trying to get a living. She hated herself all these years for having run away from him with their daughter, practically destroying what had the potential to be a very happy, loving, and cherishing family. Slowly but surely, the name she had longed decades to utter once more came forth in the form of a whisper, or perhaps, in the effect of shock, a simple motion of her lips without the addition of any sound, "Akira…"

To be Continued…

AN: Well that was unexpected, wasn't it? In any case, I'm sure you guys will know what exactly happens when Takato et al eavesdrop on the Agency meeting in the next chapter… thanks to this little sneak peak, that is.

          "Wait a minute…" the man in black pondered the matter in his head as he took a closer look at Takato's face, "I know you! You're one of those Tamers who messed up the Reaper!" He flicked the safety off his P229, shining its flashlight directly into the poor boy's eyes, "What was your name again?" He stopped to think once more, although his attention never left the tamer who was standing, hands on his head. "It was Takato, wasn't it? Takato Matsuda?"

          The aforementioned persona could only gulp. He was compromised by the very same man who was allegedly inside the club, lecturing the other Agency Directors concerning the, as far as he could tell, terrifying potential of Project: C. _So much for my first operation… Maybe this is what happened to Jeri… this was how she… died. They caught her red-handed and shot her on the spot!_ The way he saw it, there was only one out of two ways out of this. Either this man shot him dead on the spot, like what he assumed to have happened to Jeri, or, at _least_ one of the NS-4 agents who were supposed to be with him on this assignment found out about this predicament he was in and helped him out of it.

          "Oh, how rude of me!" the man smiled as he adjusted his sunglasses, giving Takato the impression that he was Agent Smith from the Matrix Movie, who could duplicate himself by thrusting his hand into other programs… or _people_… and turning them into clones of himself. "My name is Jacob Marlon, and I run the Agency… and maybe even the whole world. Now that introductions are done, though, I should focus more on eliminating the threat of your presence at this important Agency meeting." Marlon brought the silenced weapon's muzzle up to the Tamer's chest, which thankfully, unbeknownst to the Agency Chief Director, was lined with bullet proof material. He hesitated for a moment, the sound of a thoughtful 'hmm' escaping his nose as he reconsidered his options, and aimed at Takato's head instead as he began to pull the trigger.

          She never wanted to become part of the project in the first place… but it wasn't like **_they_** gave her any choices at all in life. **_They_** had found her around a decade ago, in a world not of her own; lost and unwilling to be found. She was then brought by **_them_** to the place in which **_they_** resided, and given a dwelling of her own. Every day since then, she had to get up long before daybreak and survive the trials that **_they_** gave her, improving every time, knowing that the next run-through would always be much harder.

          It had always been that way for the first five years of her being in **_their_** possession. She knew, or a fact, that she indeed was in **_their_** possession simply because **_they_** treated her as such. It was on that day that **_they_** gave her a box… nothing fancy, just a plain, ordinary box… a chest if you will. This, **_they_**told her to open when, and only when, she was ready, which, at the time, she knew she was far from being.

          She had continued her routine of completing the requirements that **_they_** demanded of her for several more days, as if nothing had changed at all. Until one night… she had just finished what activity **_they_** had her participate in, when she thought she heard a voice, a cry for help, coming from the dwelling that **_they_**gave her.

          She traced the source to be somewhere inside her room, and scoured it for the voice's origin, but to no avail. The voice had ceased… Then her eyes had met with the box that **_they_** had given her. She saw that it was currently emitting an aura not present before. She did not 'see' it in the layman's definition of actually seeing with the eyes. Rather, she sensed it using the gift she possessed that **_they_** had augmented through those daily trials and tribulations.

          Slowly and cautiously she approached the olden chest, taking to mind **_their_** admonition of opening it only when she knew for sure that she was prepared. Truly, at this point in time, she was. Upon removing the lid, a luminescence similar to that of the sun itself engulfed her entire quarters for but a moment, dying out almost immediately afterward. What she saw next caused her eyes to water in joy, for what had just been freed from the box was what she had waited ages for: a companion.

AN: There we go… now you know some of Yamamoto's past, which was, pretty much, riddled with bad luck and extreme misfortune. Funny enough I couldn't help but laugh at what I wrote when I should be feeling sorry for him… Oh, and newbie, what I was thinking of when I typed down that question was 'I wonder what question I'm going to ask him?' God dammit, I finally finished this chapter… I've been working on this since Christmas but I had no idea where to start. Decided I'd work on a few side projects while trying to fix this chapter. This second sneak peak here is a cut out from something I wrote up in school to compensate as sort of an introductory scene for Pandora's Fox. It's pretty short compared to my usual writing, but that's because I wrote it on a yellow pad using a pilot fine point pen. What could you expect?

And yes, Karya Hiakiim is that Kari clone I mentioned in the note on top of the page. Von wanted me to make one, then fine! I'll make one! Decided to give her a little twist though… got so big that it arrived at the point where I just decided to turn Kari's entire image upside down… Right now, I have no explanation of as to how a 13-year-old could possibly take five or more shots of vodka and still stay sober. Boris Divvski was the product of watching the first movie on my PC while watching an episode of Johnny Bravo. Imagine Willis was that vain and that a girl chaser. And you guys probably half-expected Sakamori to be related to Rika in some way, right? Well, there's your answer. As for Project: Toto-Con, it's still in my head and I'm sure the little clues I planted would leave you guys thinking… not that I left any clues whatsoever… did I? Hope this is enough to keep you people hooked for the time being, since I'm grounded on weekdays for the next two weeks. Don't worry, though. I swear the next chapter won't be so long… Actually, I'm still trying to put my ideas together… Well, that's a rap. The last thing I leave you with here, is the same old same old message I leave all the time: READ AND REVIEW!!!


	7. CHAPTER 7

AN: What!? Only two reviews!? Oh, well… at least I got some… The time is now: 6:59 AM Pacific Standard Time… I am currently watching this interesting movie about a dead cop who was reanimated (although he's still rotting) and is now hunting down the guy who was responsible for killing him (namely the morgue director) as he races against the clock of decay (12 hours since he was brought back). The title is Dead Heat, and it's pretty unique… talk about a whole new genre 'Crazy Cop Adventures'. Here, you got Zombie Cops (Dead Heat), Russian Cops in Chicago (Red Heat), more random cops in random situations (movies whose titles involve a word that rhymes with 'Ed' and the word 'Heat') and more… maybe even trigger-happy cops who do nothing but shoot the crap out of things (Lead Heat)? Kinda reminded me of Universal Soldier or something, you know, bringing the dead back to life for god-knows-what purposes. Of course, Universal Soldiers didn't rot in 12 hours… could you imagine? The crazy Chinatown guy even brought back all the meat inside his butcher shop… Imagine having to fight with zombie roast pigs, zombie dressed chickens, zombie chicken liver, and even… ZOMBIE BEEF FROM THE MEAT LOCKER! Care to guess what was used to kill them? I'll give you a clue… the slicker guy from 'I know what you did last summer' mainly used this. That's right… they used a MEAT HOOK to kill the damned thing, which still acted like a bull even though it had no head, no hooves, was cut open straight down the middle, had all its innards taken out… you get the picture. It was actually pretty funny, seeing a you fighting for your life (although technically he didn't have any left) with something that usually turned up inside an average hamburger… Best one? Disembodied bloodthirsty liver… Imagine THAT.

Anyways… before I get too far off topic…

Newbi: You think Boris' Lopmon is Suzie's Lopmon? Where the hell did you get that idea? And the two old coots who literally ran blindly into each other at the supermarket? Yeah, they pretty much DO love each other… damn… they even got this little scene at home… erm… better not spoil that.

Fallen Angel X: Some people consider fallen angels as evil. I think they're cool, though… thanks for the compliment too, although I hardly consider this anywhere near the best entries in the section.

Disclaimer: Yep, I am STILL going through that phase in my life… the time right now is 7:55 PM Pacific Standard Time (yes, that's right, there's been a gap). I have just seen another goddamned episode of Frontier around more or less, an hour or so ago… and I never realized how purrs seductively attractive Kazemon really is. Of course, I still feel that I WILL see those hallucinations tonight… In fact, I'm actually starting to like them… they bring out my sadistic side… In any case, those are merely hallucinations I have of some crappy shows I have no ownership of whatsoever. Got that? Good.

Too Close to Home 

Nonaka Residence, Western Shinjuku, Tokyo

Wednesday, 2016 Hours, Local Time…

          _Peculiar…_ Rumiko Nonaka eyed the dark blue Exalta that was parked just next to the compound's front gate somewhat suspiciously, wondering who in the world could possibly be visiting at this hour. Could it have been another one of her contractors just waiting to get her face and/or body on another one of their confounded magazines? It was only now that she realized how tiring a profession modeling actually was. Sure, all one had to do during the actual 'day job' was to literally stand or sit, frozen and trying to look prettier than you really were, with the occasional walking down the aisle of a fashion show. It was the countless meetings with who wanted your picture and how much he was offering that really burnt you out.

Perhaps it was that American guy, '_What was his name again?'_ who was there, trying to schedule a day for an interview and some shots to be done for Time. 'Life as a Goddess', the article was inaccurately to be entitled, since, as far as she could tell, the one she was living right now was hardly fit for one. An even more curious sight greeted her as she passed the promenade and into the dining room. Her mother was sitting at the table, sipping tea, although that wasn't unusual, but the fact that she was humming an old lullaby that the 'goddess' could vaguely remember from her childhood days.

          "Mother?"

          Seiko Nonaka turned to see her daughter looking at her with a somewhat 'Have you gone nuts?' expression on her face as she held up her duffle bag's worth of modeling clothes that had been used for the day. She mentally kicked herself for forgetting the fact that it was her maternal duty to help the supermodel carry her burdening luggage to her room as she stood up and practically wrestled the thing away and began to walk in said room's general direction, still humming that specific tune as the two proceeded.

          "You're feeling quite cheerful tonight… did you finally find that diary that you've been missing for so long?" Not that her mother's diary really had any significance in her life, but she was, after all, guessing why she was in such a good mood.

          "I found that old thing a long time ago."

          If that was the case, then the diary couldn't have been the reason. She strained in thought once again as she traversed the walkway, in pursuit of her dear mother. That was when it came back to her. What about the owner of that dark blue Exalta? Perhaps this still unseen visitor was the cause of this sudden state of amity that her mother was currently in. "That reminds me… whose car is that one outside? Is it another one of my contractors?"

          "What?" the aging brunette slid the door of her daughter's room open, bringing the heavy bag inside and landing it open on the bed, preparing to unpack. "Oh… that car." She brought out one of the more stately dresses from within the wardrobe and ran her finger across the fine material, checking whether it had been worn or not. Sadly, the 'fuchsia' piece of attire, as the fashion designer described the color, had not been used for the day. Of course, the main theme, she had heard, was about the summer, and alas, not springtime.

          "Well, who owns it?" Rumiko proceeded to her closet and began to change into something more household friendly. "If it's one of my contractors who's visiting, you should at least tell me…" Another obvious idea struck her in the head. Dark, flashy car outside, her mother in a pretty much carefree and extremely comforted mood, the somewhat unnerving aura of an unseen third person inside the house, you do the math. "Or have you found another shot at love? You know how much I detest remarriage. That, besides the fact that you aren't even divorced with father… wherever he is…" she added with a sense of uncertainty.

          "How can you say that, Ruu?" Seiko had just finished hanging that 'fuchsia' dress in the closet and was currently examining a highly transparent silken garb that probably left nothing to the imagination. "You know how much I love your father. That's why…" She pictured her dear daughter wearing such a 'fashionable' abomination at a fashion demo. How could she possibly put up with such attire? And to think that majority of her contractor fashion designers gave her at least two pieces from their new fad lines as parting gifts for when their contracts ended. "That's why I couldn't help but bring him here…"

          "Are you telling me that that car outside is father's? And that you brought him here?" Why was she finding that statement hard to believe? Of course, her mother had separated from him in the first place, bringing hapless little her in her exodus far from her father's house and company. From what she could remember of that fateful night, her parents were having a bitter conversation about how much time one should devote to his job and how much time should be devoted to his family. It ended in some swearing and the next thing she knew, all of her belongings were packed into boxes by the next morning, and they had moved into this seemingly haunted little compound that didn't have the comforts of concrete walls and oak doors. She had grown to love… or appreciate at least… this humble abode, and frankly, she couldn't care any less if the place was actually made of some material far more fragile than paper and wood, since it was home. "After what you did? Why? I thought he was _too preoccupied_ with his job." She added with somewhat bitter sarcasm.

          "I was only thinking for the good of our family!" Seiko reacted in defense, almost tearing up a green party dress in evident irritation as she straightened it out. Akira was going too far that time. How important could his job possibly be? He was a bank accountant. It wasn't like he had the most pressing profession in the world. Sure, the President of the United States could be excused of that. It was so pressing, in fact, that the first family had to live inside the White House for the next four or so years. "But now that I think about it…" she trailed off as her daughter began to speak once more.

          "How _did_ you meet father today?" she helped her mother with the last of her wardrobe, separating the used from the unused. It came to her as a complete surprise. It wasn't like her mother was doing anything at all in attempts to find her father. In fact, it was quite the other way around.

          "Well, I had a little accident at the supermarket while shopping that involved hitting someone else's cart, you see… and… well, that someone was your father." It was quite a coincidence and extremely ironic that the two had been going into the same building for the past three decades or so and yet they only met again that afternoon. "I had no idea whatsoever that he was shopping at the same place the whole time!"

          "Well that's just great…" Rumiko mumbled. "I spent every penny of my income that I could spare, for at least 15 years, sacrificing as little money as possible to give you an easier time, into resources that could help me find him, without any success whatsoever, and here you are, telling me that you ran into each other at the supermarket just like that!" It was time to release the growing tension. She might as well do it by complaining. "The only goddamned reason I stopped funding my search was because… was because…" a tear traveled down her cheek as she rested her face in her gladly accepting hand. She sat, silent, on the covers of the bed, until finally, a single word left her mouth, "Rika…"

          Seiko placed a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder. "It's alright, dear… it wasn't your fault." Who could possibly blame anybody? It was a dark and cloudy day, quite stormy, actually. Rain poured like there was no tomorrow, and for a certain young Tamer, there certainly wasn't. There wasn't a thing that anybody could do. Fate had wrenched Rumiko's growing daughter from her like candy from a poor, defenseless baby. Most of Rika's 'associates', as she preferred to call them, actually believed fate had killed her. Fate, however, had taken not her life, but the control of her destiny, rather, and said that it had more 'little great' things for her to accomplish.

          "Oh, mother… I just miss her so much!" Seiko had not been surprised one bit by her daughter, who, instead of making do with her reassuring hand, engulfed her in a powerful hug that only a devastated individual in need of counseling could possibly make. Strong and loving mother as she was, she couldn't help but feel her daughter's anguish at their tragic loss. Neither of them knew, however, that this loss was actually a gain for the continued safety of the world they loved so much. Indeed, she saw her granddaughter as two people: a cold, shut, and isolated individual driven only by the fact that she was doing something, and a warm (get the polarity of this?), fun-loving, and social person who went on with her life in the service of friendship. Most of this she had Renamon to thank for, wherever slab of the Digital World she was hanging around just about now.

          "I'm sorry," a voice interrupted. "Am I disturbing anything?" Akira Sakamori appeared in the doorway, a well-to-do roll of tissue paper in his left hand, mobile phone in his right. His eyes were focused on the blonde sitting on the bed next to his wife, how lovely she was, despite the fact that she was crying her eyes out for some reason.

          Seiko looked up to see him and smiled rather thoughtfully, "Honey," she patted her daughter's back, "Look who's here…"

          The supermodel weakly brought her head up from its facedown position and turned to face the entrance to the room, where she was greeted with a sight for sore eyes, probably because when she recognized him, it made her want to cry even more. "Father!" she stood up and left her mother's embrace, wrapping her arms around Sakamori's torso as she buried her face into his suit, allowing her tears to stain the expensive material. "I'm so sorry!" How many years had she been away from him? More than three decades, she guessed. How many opportunities did she come across and throw away just because he wasn't there to see her success or failure and smile for either? Dozens, maybe even hundreds… What responsibilities had been given her that she failed to accomplish? So far, only one, yet it was the only responsibility he had commissioned her with.

It was on the night before she was taken by force, after her parents' fought. He went into her room and had a little conversation, sure that the argument had led to something terrible, "Remember, my little Ruu… take care of your mother, okay? Take care of our family." At the time, she had no idea what that meant, but as she matured and learned, those words had engraved themselves into her mind like a chisel through wood. Sadly, she wasn't there for Rika when it happened. She had failed.

          "What are you talking about, dear?" the NS-8 Director asked compassionately, "What are you sorry for?"

          "I've failed, father! I've failed to take care of our family!" she was pounding her fists into his chest involuntarily now, out of frustration on herself for being so foolish

          "No you haven't, Ruu… You've taken great care of our family. You're living a happy life, your mother's living a happy life, and now we're together again, one big, happy family." Of course, he knew what she was talking about, but still, secrecy was needed to ensure the security of the net. If ever the two found out about Rika's true standing, he doubted that they'd ever be able to forgive him.

          "You don't understand, father!" Rumiko had calmed down somewhat, although she was still sobbing, "I wasn't there for her when she needed me the most! I… I couldn't protect my daughter!"

          "What? Your daughter?"

          "You've been a grandfather for over eighteen years, Akira…" Seiko interjected. "I guess it was just fate that you were unable to meet her. She died in a car accident over five years ago."

          "I… see… my little Ruu's daughter…" his eyes were downcast, 'evident' that he was disappointed upon hearing about it. "Tell me… what was she like?" So was the beginning of another night's worth of quality time of this little family, time that was capable of doing what three decades' worth of separation could never hope to do: rekindle old fires of love for each other. Sakamori found out more about the redhead who worked for him in one night than he ever did while talking to her personally. As the clock ticked and time went by, he realized it was too late to cook dinner, so they decided to eat outside, instead.

Club Uleslovik, Moscow

Wednesday, 1913 Hours, Local Time

          "As you all know, the reason I brought you here today is of the utmost importance." Jacob Marlon stood at the head of the rectangular table where at least ten other men sat, guarded heavily by at least a dozen Agency Operatives. "It is our annual conference designated to checking out all Agency Offices' status. We will begin with the Mid-Eastern Office. Mister Al-Deev?"

          An Arabic man, Syrian, actually, stood and took to the projection screen at the head of the table, signaling one of the agents to switch a projector on (how typical). The image of a line graph appeared on the white material, clearly showing a positive slope. "In the last six months, the Agency's Middle Eastern Office has distributed over 80 Million US Dollars' worth of weapons and supplies to terror cells such as the Brotherhood of Jai-qul, Krish-Mekhal Allegiance, the Corps of Itus Mahahmir, and the Huran Frontier, in exchange for total arms support. That alone, is impressive enough. We have also catered to the needs of bio-terrorists such as the Nurem Clan with instructions to attack important government facilities of the United States command in order to shake up the administration and assure our founder's ascension into power."

          "Excellent… is there anything else you have to say, Mister Al-Deev?" Marlon look as though he wanted to wring every last bit of information from the man there was. Who could blame him, though? It was, after all, an annual meeting, thus, only once a year to meet.

          "Of course… I have also managed to increase our oil production rate by 37 percent… We should have quite an income revolution in my sector within the next few months." Omar Ben Gazarra Al-Deev was relatively new to the Agency's Board of Directors; plucked out of the Al Quida Network just as the United States began its assault on Afghanistan and began arresting suspected terrorist leaders. He was one of them. Fortunately enough, Marlon knew the man's capabilities to lead, and he hadn't been mistaken at all. He was far more competent than the former Middle Eastern Director, and perhaps, even surpassed Usama Bin Laden's charisma and skills. Better yet, the man was humble, and far from being a fanatic, and thus, was easy to handle in terms of diplomatic discussion. He was, however, nothing less than a sleeping lion, and would not hesitate to attack once provoked. "Our expected net profit this year would most likely be triple that of Director Lik Ma'al Harrani in his last year… I am still enraged by the fact that the United States was able to capture him in spite of his unequalled craftiness and ingenuity."

          "Very impressive, Mister Al-Deev… I believe we have just found somebody whose craftiness surpasses even his." The other men at the table laughed at this subtle joke. "I think we've seen enough of the Middle East for now, though, don't you think?" the other Directors nodded. "Very well, Mister Al-Deev… I leave those countries in your very capable hands. What about you, Mister Skatakov? Is there anything you have to share with us tonight? Any news? Good news?"

          A person with a rather stocky build, which was almost signature to all Russian men, grunted somewhat agitatedly. "News, do I have? Yes… far from good news, however." Skatakov mumbled some rather unintelligible curses under his breath. He would swear on Dmittri's grave that the foolishness of his bodyguards during that infamous predawn period would not go unpunished, ensure that those fools got what was coming to them. "My Deputy Director is dead…"

          "That is bad news indeed… from what your reports stated, Mister Klevyorodov had so much potential. He would've made an excellent substitute for you and an eventual replacement. It's sad he had to die at such an early age. Had he been smarter in choosing his…" Marlon just realized that he knew nothing whatsoever of Klevyorodov's death, "Why _did_ he die in the first place?"

          Skatakov's frown deepened, "I think that is a story I prefer not to tell, Jacob. It is plain foolishness…" indeed, how could he admit that his deputy director died of a stray bullet? How humiliating would that be? _Such a tale would bring great shame to my Office's reputation…_

          "It's your call, Mister Skatakov," Marlon said in a rather sympathetic manner. Just because he was the head of a massive organized ring of crime, that didn't mean he was heartless. The other Directors were his friends… _some_ of them, actually. He smirked at the thought of shooting Kaira in the head. "In that case, then, just give me your annual report in text some other time. We have more pressing matters to attend to." He cleared his throat to call attention to the other ten who seemed to be getting just a _little_ bit too comfortable with the snacks that were provided of them. "And now, for the biggest report of all. Gentlemen, four years ago, the United States launched an all-out attack on the already tense Hussein administration in Iraq. Using their unrivaled military technologies, the Coalition, headed by the Americans, usurped several billion dollars' worth of oil fields and are now using them to further their own capitalist regime." The others at the table began mumble in agreement. Marlon was correct. Although America had given Iraq its independence some two or so years earlier, the oil fields remained their property. D-Tech itself had more than a dozen Iraqi oil wells under their control, mostly managed by Director Al-Deev. "Now what do you think makes the American War Machine go round? What is it that makes these hotshots so hot?"

          An aging Asian stood up, fist connecting with the table in absolute certainty, "Their relentless pursuit of conquering the global economy, hence feeding their boundless desire for wealth just a little more every time, until there are no natural resources remaining!" Unbeknownst to anybody in the room, a tiny camera in one of the corners of the ceiling silently observed their every move, and listened to their every word. This device in turn, transmitted its audio-visual feed to a certain dirt-haired NS-8 operative sitting on the roof of the next building, monitoring the entire conversation through his watch as though he were watching a TV show. He chuckled at the somewhat cheesy statement. All that was left to be said was to label the Americans as a bunch of power-hungry capitalist dogs.

          "That's Tsing Gao Lieang," Yamamoto's voice passed out of his earpiece and into his nervous system, "A former Class AAA General of the PRA and Chairman of D-Tech Asia. We believe he runs the Agency's Chinese Office, and he most likely does." He was in his place, of course, in an inconspicuous black truck in an alley less than a block away, monitoring the conversation himself. The extra monitors allowed him to see through the three other micro cams from Sazaki's device, which were used to keep an eye on the alley's entrance, and two heavily guarded areas. The NS-4 agents were scouting around the block, making sure that no member of the Agency's security detail 'wandered' into their operation.

          "Sure looks like a tiger," Matsuki replied, referring of course, to the Chinese (although all Asian nations are included) 'Tigers'. "I wonder what's next…"

          Lieang sat down again, confident that he made his point. Marlon, on the other hand, didn't seem the least bit impressed. He looked to the ceiling as if beseeching God for inspiration, noticing a blinking red light in one of the darker corners. Squinting to distinguish the light's source he could make out a camera. It was rather small for a regular security camera, and it almost struck him as to the fact that it was of similar design to the Agency's Microscopic Spy Camera, the "Nano Sight". _That's not right…_ they weren't supposed to be recording this meeting. They never did, anyway. It then hit him like a ton of bricks. _Someone else_ has been monitoring their activities… and that was undesirable. He motioned for one of the guards to track down where its transmissions were going, remaining almost 'normal' in terms of stance, hence, Takato being completely unaware of the operation being compromised.

The former reached into his pocket, dialing a few 'special' keys on his mobile, the purpose of which, was to be unveiled later. Right now, though, he had more important things to take care of rather than worrying about how they were being spied on. Besides, once they were able to triangulate the little monster's position, he would be dead in a matter of moments. "Well, that's true, Mister Lieang, but I was talking more about the backbone of their military, the Crusader Battle Tank. It's the fastest armored vehicle of its weight class, and yet this speed is paired with superior armor and quite a punch from its 150mm cannon, making it the most powerful frontline tank on the planet."

          A European fellow stood up from his place at the table, his blonde ponytail swaying slightly as his heartless blue eyes met with Marlon's sunglasses. "Are you suggesting that we develop a new frontline weapon that is somehow superior to the Crusader?" He smiled at the possible prospects. Imagine, a frontline tank far more powerful than the most advanced American ground vehicle in existence. "If so, then I consider it a personal challenge to design and build it."

          "Slow down, Mister MacLeod… let me finish." Marlon took another look at that camera, glaring at whoever was watching them at the moment, before getting his line of thinking back, "Mister MacLeod is correct in guessing the nature of my announcement, although I am already two steps ahead of him." He signaled the projector's content to be switched, a power point presentation springing forth to life in front of the room. It opened up with a somewhat large photograph of some kind of bipedal machine. "I know what you're thinking, and no, this is not a prop for the latest sci-fi movie that Hollywood is working on, it's _much_ bigger than some low budget robot film." this statement elicited some laughs. "It's a real McCoy this time around. Gentlemen, allow me to present the future of frontline warfare: the Combat Machine, although I prefer calling it Commac, just for increased convenience and the fact that it sounds cooler…"

          "So you already have some active units?" MacLeod was, in fact, Scottish, last living member of the long extinct Clan MacLeod, or at least, Clan MacLeod before they started to intermarry. He was pure, and alone in the world of half-breeds. "Interesting…"

          "Oh, we sure do… we have around 20 or so fully functional Commacs at the Pacific branch." He took another glance at the camera, which this time, caught Takato's eye. "So now I post a challenge. I have here, a bunch of CDs, each containing complete information concerning Project Commac. Each of you can have one. The first office to design an entire variety of different Commac Models based on the original, and to actually demonstrate one of each for my eyes to see wins the prize."

          "Which would be?" MacLeod seemed to be the only one interested. Well why wouldn't he? His family had been interested in weapons for over eight and a half _hundred_ years... They had come up with ideas centuries ahead of their time, almost equal to Leonardo Da Vinci's ornithopter (or artificial bird) and his other device, somewhat like a helicopter, although why they hadn't put those ideas into effect was probably because several of his clan mates considered such as ludicrous. _Typical Clan mentality… _he scoffed their foolishness. _Everybody has a goddamned say in the project. That's why it failed in the first place._

          "That will have to wait until later." Yet again he 'flipped' the presentation onto its next page, showing a rather detailed diagram and cross section of a Commac Unit and began explaining its design and structure. It was basically coated with a hybrid 'Guardarium' alloy, a mixture of mega titanium, steel, and some unidentifiable protective materials that weren't even natural. This protected its delicate insides along with the internal VR interface that allowed the pilot to work the machinery while remaining in the safety of isolation from the outside world, pretty much similar to the command interface of the 'Rex' prototype in the highly acclaimed spy game, 'Metal Gear Solid', one of the best recorded in the late 90's. One of its many differences from said weapon was that its Guardarium plating was more specifically Mk III, strengthened two times over to ensure absolute impregnability against all forms of anti-tank weaponry and ballistics, unlike Rex, whose armor crumbled like cardboard when hit with a High Energy Anti-Tank (HEAT) Round. That is to say, as what Dr. Hal (forgot his real name) Emerich, Otacon, or whatever he was called, said, since, having invented Rex, knew it from the inside out. This time, he smiled blatantly at the camera with a look in his eye that said, 'I know you're watching me…'

          That was definitely a sign for Takato that he was overstaying his welcome. He shut off his watch and connected to all three other frequencies. "I've been compromised… I'm betting the Agency's already got a team searching for me…"

          "Copy that, Matsuki." It was Hiakiim. "I'm proceeding to your location, ETA two minutes or less."

          Takato reset his watch, knowing Yamamoto already had a copy or two in the truck and stood up, only to look right into the muzzle of a silenced P-229 sidearm. Looking further up the weapon, he could make out that the person holding it was none other than that man in black who kept on glaring at the camera and always seemed to know that he was watching but didn't mind at all. The Tamer prepared to make a run for it, but decided not to. After all, he did have a gun trained at him at point blank range. "That's a good boy," he said, a very toothy and somewhat frightening grin finding its way to his face. His eyebrow went up for some strange reason, which, he gave out in his next statement. "Wait a minute…" the man in black pondered the matter in his head as he took a closer look at Takato's face, "I know you! You're one of those Tamers who messed up the Reaper!" He flicked the safety off his P-229, shining its flashlight directly into the poor boy's eyes, "What was your name again?" He stopped to think once more, although his attention never left the tamer who was standing, hands on his head. "It was Takato, wasn't it? Takato Matsuki?"

          The aforementioned persona could only gulp. He was compromised by the very same man who was allegedly inside the club, lecturing the other Agency Directors concerning the, as far as he could tell, terrifying potential of Project Commac. _So much for my first operation… Maybe this is what happened to Jeri… this was how she… died. They caught her red-handed and shot her on the spot!_ The way he saw it, there was only one out of two ways out of this. Either this man shot him dead on the spot, like what he assumed to have happened to Jeri, or, at _least_ one of the NS-4 agents who were supposed to be with him on this assignment found out about this predicament he was in and helped him out of it.

          "Oh, how rude of me!" the man smiled as he adjusted his sunglasses, giving Takato the impression that he was Agent Smith from the Matrix Movie, who could duplicate himself by thrusting his hand into other programs… or _people_… and turning them into clones of himself. Suspicious of this same topic, Takato set his watch to the camera inside the club and took a glance. His eyes widened as he saw the very same man still giving details on how Project Commac worked. _This is impossible!_ Yet it was happening. He was in two places at once. Perhaps he _was_ Agent Smith?

 "My name is Jacob Marlon, and I run the Agency… and maybe even the whole world once I manage to take control of it. Now that introductions are done, though, I should focus more on eliminating the threat of your presence at this important Agency meeting." 'Marlon', if he really was Marlon, that is, brought the silenced weapon's muzzle up to the Tamer's chest, which thankfully, unbeknownst to the Agency Chief Director, was lined with bullet proof material. He hesitated for a moment, the sound of a thoughtful 'hmm' escaping his nose as he reconsidered his options, and aimed at Takato's head instead as he began to pull the trigger, Takato closing his eyes in anticipation.

          A shot rang out through the cold winter night, followed almost immediately by the sound of a bullet embedding itself into flesh. _Strange…_ Takato thought. That was the loudest silent weapon he'd ever heard. Another strange occurrence was the fact that he could still think. Had he been shot in the head, he wouldn't even have known he was dead. Did the bullet hit him elsewhere? No pain… although he did suddenly feel some heavy weight collapse onto his shoulders. He opened his eyes to see that he was holding a dead Jacob Marlon in his arms. "So it wasn't his gun after all." The Tamer looked further away and noticed a figure slowly walk up to him. It was Karya, holding a pistol at arms length, barrel smoking in wake of ignition from firing.

          "He's dead. I made sure of that." she helped Takato push the dead weight off and took him by the wrist. "More agents are coming this way, so we'd better move now. Yamamoto and Yuri are just downstairs in the truck." Too stunned to say anything, the boy merely nodded and allowed the younger girl to pull him towards the stairwell. In the meantime, the corpse of who identified himself as Jacob Marlon, even though Jacob Marlon was still in the club, slowly disintegrated into countless particles of data that the howling wind and settling snow scattered throughout the immediate area.

Wong Residence, Beijing

Thursday, 0036 Hours, Local Time

          It is said that the worst form of trouble was the kind that was a little too close to home. Well in this case, Henry Wong would find himself in that exact form of trouble. The phone had rung at least a fifth time before the agitated boy stepped out of the shower and headed for the living room where the ringing was coming from, grabbing a towel on the way. (AN: You ever notice that in this fic, Henry's always taking a shower whenever he's at home?) "Who could it possibly be at this hour?" He'd stayed up late on his computer yet again, surfing for random things, chatting with friends online, while Suzie slumbered. Terriermon was left with no choice but to keep her company until she dozed off. His sister was still a major pain in the ass after all this time. Lucky for him, Terriermon was back.

          Now the problem with being fresh out of the shower while answering a cordless phone, was that you never knew what effects the water might have on you. Take, for example, the possibility of getting an electric shock. Of course, Henry knew more, since, as he picked the receiver up, it slipped out of his grasp and onto the floor. Fortunately, it was carpeted so heavily that you could drop a glass on it and it still wouldn't break. The Tamer wiped his hands on his towel and picked up the still ringing receiver, "Wong residence, Henry speaking…"

          He didn't expect to hear the voice that answered, "Good evening, Mister Wong. May I ask how you are doing?"

          _Xing… _Why would this guy want to call in the middle of the night? Perhaps it had something to do with his evil organization that was just about ready to kidnap his father and force him and other scientists to construct a diabolical weapon of mass destruction somewhere in the Himalayas. Well, maybe it was easier to learn his motives if he asked? "I'm terribly sorry, Mister Xing, but my dad's asleep. I'm afraid you'll have to call back tomorrow."

          "Oh, I'm afraid you're terribly mistaken, Mister Wong," Xing let a hearty chuckle escape through the receiver. "I didn't call up to talk to your father, I called up so I could talk to you."

          "Now why would a high-profile executive like you wanna talk to an average, middle-class kid like me?" This was, of course, the kind of situation that would ultimately arouse Henry's suspicions and hopefully answer some questions that Conspiracy Theory never did. It was something like being plunged into the mysterious world upon which the said reality show tried ever so valiantly and in great effort to investigate. Things like aliens, shows like Alias, and others based on government conspiracies came to mind.

          "Have you been considering my offer, Mister Wong? I'm sure that on a technical scale you would love to see our facilities." The only way to get conversation right, was to make the boy comfortable. He would have to discuss the topic cleverly until he would be able to weave his way into what he wanted. He didn't want to frighten the seemingly already paranoid Henry, and would first see how much he knew.

          "Maybe," Henry knew there was something fishy going on, and he could smell it. Or perhaps it was just some of the leftover fish that had been left, for some obscure reason, in the dining room, and not placed in the refrigerator. _That's it…_ "Pardon me if I sound rude, Mister Xing, sir, but is it alright if you go straight to the point of why you called me in the first place? I was in the middle of my shower, and I think I'm starting to get dirty again."

          Xing smiled wryly on his end of the phone. "Of course. Tell me, Mister Wong. What do you know about the Network Security Act signed in 1945?" That was straightforward enough. Hopefully, the boy would know of what he was talking about. It all began in those wee days when computers were used in WWII. After the Allies' victory and the founding of the United Nations, all seemed to go well, except on making the policy on the UN's first priority at the time. What in the name of St. Machiavelli (no, Machiavelli wasn't a saint either) were they going to do about those gigantic computers that were rotting away in warehouses after their use was at its highest peak? The answer was simple enough. Create some sort of long distance connection between them in order to achieve something for the greater good of humanity. Of course, the greater good needed something to protect it, and thus, the act was signed, making official, the founding of Network Security.

          "What about it? The UN decided to connect the WWII super computers in a manner of an extremely primitive form of the Internet and founded an agency dedicated to protecting those computers and that connection, which was extremely delicate at the time. Said agency was disbanded in 1969 due to budget cuts from the UN and the increasing tension from the cold war. Am I right?" Where was this guy going to? It appeared as though he was leading to something, but just what that something was, he had no idea.

          "Partly. There's more going on behind the mask that faces the public, Mister Wong, a _lot_ more than you think." Xing had found his foundational statement. If that didn't get Henry thinking in that direction, nothing would. "What if I told you that Network Security was only disbanded to the public, but in reality, was still functioning completely, only on a covert level?"

          "Then I'd say you sound just like one of the many contributors to the growing conspiracies on Conspiracy Theory, Mister Xing. What exactly are you telling me?" This was definitely going to be one of the strangest experiences of his life, talking to a mysterious sixty-something corporate executive about computers in the middle of the night, almost naked, just after moving into a new abode.

          "You know, Mister Wong, Conspiracy Theory isn't always that accurate about many things. Sometimes, they're right, other times, the whole conspiracy's a joke. Like, what's with bigfoot, anyway? Everybody, even the government, _knows_ he's just a guy in a furry suit. Aliens, on the other hand… that's something Roswell pretty much explains for itself. Something tells me that there is indeed something out there that lives, Mister Wong. Like Digimon. You, as a Tamer, have been given something most people abhor, a _great_ responsibility. That responsibility is not only protecting our world from Negative Digital Elements that slip through from the other side, but protecting it from Negative Elements on this side as well."

          "Where are you getting to, old man?"

          "I'm saying we need your help, Mister Wong. The Digital World is in greater turmoil than it was in the days you remember. And we need every helping hand we can get to aid in putting a stop to it. Vast sections have been destroyed, massive unnatural terraforming has occurred, entire stories have been cleared plain out of existence. Digimon are still actively entering our world and wreaking wanton havoc, Mister Wong, and as you heard, that's the least of our problems."

          "Who… are you?" Clearly, this man knew more about the Digital World than perhaps even the entirety of Hypnos' databanks. Out of curiosity, he'd hacked into them before, and all he ever saw was a seemingly endless string of code that even he, with his knowledge of computers, could barely understand. Henry had assumed, however, that this string of data stood for the foundational structure of the Digital World itself. If that was the case, then the only thing that Hypnos could actually monitor with proper accuracy would be its topography. No wonder so many Wild Ones had managed to slip in over the years. Their technology was incapable of detecting them long before they even attempt to cross over. But how could someone like Xing know more than what Hypnos could provide? They used state of the art technology that was practically the next generation of computer-enhanced defense. Unless, of course, whoever this man worked for had access to even more superior technology than what was available at the fabled towers. If that was indeed the situation, then they would probably be using what could be considered as the 'Next Gen's Next Gen'.

          "Let's just say that I'm one of those contributors to Conspiracy Theory who isn't doing a Hoax. Use your brain, Mister Wong. Our Intel indicates that among the many Tamers out there, _you _are the one who exercises it the most. Don't play 'Clueless in Seattle' with me. I know that you already get the idea by now."

          "That's 'Sleepless in Seattle'," Henry answered with a sense of confidence, "And if you're thinking that I'm thinking that you are somehow connected to Network Security, then you just answered the 10 million dollar question without even having to tell me."

          "That's what I like about you, Mister Wong. You're ever the wiser. What else can you tell about me? If you can figure out what's really going on, I'll save you the trouble of having to endure another five minutes of nakedness."

          Henry's eyes widened. How did he know? All he said was that he was in the middle of the shower. Henry was a fast dresser, and would probably be able to put some clothing on by the third ring. The only problem was that he didn't want his parents, or his siblings, to wake up in the middle of the night over an unanswered telephone that continued to ring. The Tamer suddenly garnered the distinct and eerie feeling that somehow, he was being watched. "How did—"

          "Let's just say that my intelligence network rivals that of the CIA. Now, Mister Wong, were you saying something?"

          "Judging from the fact that you can see me – or rather, probably have agents standing by and informing you of my state, I'd say you've got a very high position in an organization that has access to intelligence methodology. Probably the head of some sort of special division – no, wait. I see… it's all coming together now. Lotus Technologies isn't what it seems, is it? It's all just a frontal organization, right? You're really the head of a Network Security Division! And you want me to join you!"

          "You got every last detail, Mister Wong… just as I knew you would. So what do you say?"

          "I don't know… convince me that I'm doing the right thing, and I'll consider my options."

          "Alright then. Meet me outside Lotus Technologies Headquarters tomorrow morning. We'll have a little chat. The map has already been provided and has been sent to your mailbox via secure line. Good night." With that, the call ended, leaving a stunned Henry Wong to assess his situation and think it over. Could it all have been a dream? Or did he really just have a conversation with the head of a mythical agency? He checked the caller ID device for any solid proof. Surprisingly enough, the call wasn't registered on the electronic gadget. With a sense of doubt, he proceeded to his room and turned his computer on.

Room 728, Niroku Apartments, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Thursday, 0328 Hours, Local Time

          "Goddamned alarm…" A hand shot out from beneath the sheets and groped for the digital timepiece that rested on the nearby coffee table. _Funny…_ it wasn't there. What's more, the ringing heard by the agitated person was hardly what he recalled his alarm clock sounded like. Then there was the fact that it seemed to beep faster than a few moments ago, momentum increasing to the point that it sounded like a single sound. The hand continued to probe the surface of the table, finally grasping some object. Hypnos Director Mitsuo Yamaki then brought the said object up to his face, in order that he might examine just what it was.

          "What the… the Arc?" and so, it was in fact, the crimson D-Arc that was causing the racket, the very Arc he hadn't used in over fifteen years. He could still remember that day when he had been foolish enough to take Veemon's advice and have him armor digivolve using that card with a digi-egg of courage on it. What resulted was a fiasco of an operation that ended with a necessary evil that involved Flamedramon dying in order for everybody else to get out alive. He should've taken Sakamori's advice that day and skipped that operation. To think Veemon was planning for them to have some quality time together back then.

          Of course, that was all in the past. Why Sakamori gave his Arc back after nearly two decades of confiscation was a complete mystery. Even now when it started acting up again, holographic display showing some kind of message. "Warning: Catalyst not found. Unable to engage re-initialization process… Re-initialization? What's going on here?" The way he understood it, the Arc was re-initializing, meaning a reset in the system and perhaps rebooting several factors that led to a brand new partnership. Could it be? Was Veemon - the Arc - giving him a second chance?

          Yamaki didn't exactly live alone, these days, and shared his room (and bed) with some person from work, who had apparently moved in because she was a bit strapped for cash. Riley stirred by his side. "Chief, you mind telling my why you're up at…" she checked the digital alarm clock, which just happened to be on the table beside _her_ side of the bed, "3:30 in the morning?" Sure, she slept in his room and on his bed, but it didn't go any farther than that. That was when she saw the cause of the noise that had awakened her earlier, "The Arc?"

          "Riley, do you have any idea of what I could possibly use as a catalyst for a system re-initialization?" that was a pretty straightforward question that certainly gave no hint that they shared any relationship whatsoever besides the one between a leader and subordinate during work. "This thing's practically dying for one." The Arc continued to beep off, and he was dead certain that it wasn't going to stop any time soon; more specifically, until he found that catalyst.

          "How should I know about catalysts for a D-Arc's re-initialization?" she retorted in a rather dozy manner as sleep continued to claw at her from the very spot on which she was lying on. "I'm just a technician…" That last part she mumbled didn't quite register in Yamaki's brain as he continued to think, despite all the noise (which was thankfully absorbed by sound-proofed walls to prevent the wrath of angry neighbors), calmly pondering about just what exactly that catalyst was supposed to be. (AN: pardon me, just a random musing, but to those MSTers who apply the 'all your base' joke to lines/statements with terrible grammar, I salute you! Someone set up us the bomb!)

          Looking to his right, he was amazed to see that Riley had dozed off quite well despite the fact that the Arc was still blaring out at the world with repetitive beeps. The most logical scene in his life that had something to do with the catalyst flashed by, making it look as obvious as it already did. _What's in the card?_ His own voice never sounded so nonchalant, even though it was all in his head. _That's a surprise you'll have to unwrap later…_ that would be Sakamori, giving him a few hints on what the card was. _The card… _And so it hit him like a ton of bricks, causing him to cry out loud, defying the continuous beeping of the Arc, "The card!"

          The Hypnos Director scrambled out of bed and went for the drawer of that same table, practically ripping it open as he frantically searched (in his boxers) for that damned blue card. At last he found it and held it up triumphantly as he proceeded to the bathroom, card in one hand, Arc in the other. It was an awkward place to digi-modify something, moreover an awkward time and situation, since he lacked both the partner and opponent for the job. He slid the card through the reader without saying so much as a weak "Digi-modify". Card went through reader, and the beeping stopped. _Thank God…_ the display's message had changed. "Catalyst confirmed and authenticated. Please stand by for re-initialization and data reformatting…"

          Yamaki's eyebrow shot up at the statement in question. He needed time to think about what this thing was trying to tell him. So, as all bathroom thinkers went, he placed the Arc on the sink's edge as he sat on the toilet, with the cover on, of course, and made like that 'Thinker' statue. Re-initialization, he understood, but data reformatting? What data was this thing talking about? As he could recall, that day, a few renegade Guardian Algorithms were wreaking havoc in the West Sector, Ebonwomon's jurisdiction.

Technically, he was in those days before Virgin's creation and thus, helped maintain order by making dimensional jumps via Synthetic Digi-Gates within NS-8's primary. His team was under heavy fire from those damned things that moved like they were those Agent programs from out of the Matrix. In retrospect, he supposed that Guardian Algorithms were the ones who inspired the Wachowskis to do the Men In Black getup for System Agents in the first place. They _did_ serve the same purpose after all. The Arc began to glow and shake in the sink, although Yamaki hardly noticed it since he was busy musing about his past.

Flamedramon had charged in at them full force with his Flame Rocket attack just in tandem with a glitch in the Network Equilibrium System that warped the digital space time matter fabric, resulting in the said dragon digimon to become… highly flammable and, despite his elemental property, suicidal in the sense that he became vulnerable to fire. Flamedramon exploded, effectively scattering his data, the Guardian Algorithms exploded, scattering theirs as well, and were all picked up by an NS-8 Recovery Stream for recycling. It then dawned on him that Recovery Streams picked up scattered data for _recycling_, and the only way a D-Arc could possibly engage a data reformat was if it contained some data itself. _That means…_ Veemon was inside his Arc all this time and he didn't even know it.

          As he looked to his left, and the direction of the sink, he was surprised to see a blue, spunky-looking dragon with a horn on his nose, complemented by a 'V' mark on his forehead, sitting in the sink, Arc in hand, staring back at the Hypnos Director. "Veemon?" who else could it have been? He didn't know any other digimon who had a goofy grin on his face whenever they looked at each other. All the others either looked dangerous, like wild ones, devas, and that Digimon Queen's fox, annoying, like that Wong kid's Terriermon and that freaky little marshmallow thing that had something to do with digivolution, or just plain stupid, like Matsuda's Guilmon.

          Veemon didn't quite recognize who was talking to him, although he was sure he'd seen the guy somewhere before. Vague images of his past life flashed through his mind… _Where… where… where…_ That look… those sunglasses (yes, Yamaki, for some reason, is wearing sunglasses indoors)… that hair… Could it be? "Mitzy?"

          Only one person – digimon, rather, _ever_ called him by that awkward, yet heart-warming (yeah right…) nickname. "It is you, Veemon…" Yamaki managed a smirk.

          "How long has it been?" Judging from the guy's face, grown-up features, and the place they were hanging around in, Veemon couldn't help but think that he had missed at least a decade of his partner's life, and partners weren't supposed to do that. Partners were Holmes and Watson, David and Jonathan, Salt and Pepper, friends to the very end, inseparable! He had failed his duty. Maybe this resurrection was a second chance to prove himself worthy of being Yamaki's partner? It then hit him of as to why he died in the first place. _Note to self: NEVER attempt a Flame Rocket attack while the digital world's space time matter continuum is screwed up for some unknown reason._

          "Fifteen years, Veemon…"

          "Fifteen years!? That's almost half your life!" the dragon eyed the floor, the intense guilt on his face blatantly showing like a blemish on a rotten tomato, "Which I missed entirely thanks to that digital life-death limbo I was put in…I'm so sorry…"

          "Don't be… it was my fault." It wasn't characteristically like Yamaki to take the blame for anything. Veemon knew him as the type of guy who threw a blame away since he didn't like the idea of anybody feeling guilty for something… or denying his fault in a very annoyed manner.

          "Heh… sure it was…" Veemon sarcastically replied, rolling his eyes as he did, "And while you're at it, mind getting me a Big Mac Value Meal? I'm starving…" Yamaki frowned considerably at the remark. "Kidding…"

          "Why don't I show you around? The changes to the city aren't much, but maybe you should see the new innovations of the 21st century." Great so now he was going to give his partner a tour of the wonders of modern computers. How intriguing. "Just keep quiet, alright? It's four o'clock in the morning."

          That statement raised an eyebrow, "It's four o'clock in the morning?" Veemon's eyes settled on the lump under the covers of his partner's bed, which just happened to be rising and falling, giving him the impression that somebody was sleeping in the bed, hence, they were far from alone in the apartment. "So you're married now? Who's the lucky girl?"

          "It's not what it looks, Vee…" How was he going to explain a woman in her twenties sleeping in _his_ bed to his partner? Roommates? _Then he'd think the moral system was becoming sloppy…_ Sister? _He knows everything about my family life…_ Cousin? Last reason still applied. Truth? _Of course he'd probably say we had a working relationship or something._ Well, it was worth a shot. "Riley just works for me."

          "Sure she does…" the dragon rolled his eyes yet again, "And I bet she _works_ on you every night, doesn't she?"

          "Pervert." Veemon couldn't help but chuckle. Why was Mitzy keeping the fact that he was _sleeping_ with somebody from his own partner when it was already so _obvious_? His thoughts were interrupted as a hand came down on his shoulder. Yamaki was dressed up and ready to go… wherever he was going. "How's about we grab some sushi at a Seven-Eleven? For old time's sake… my treat."

          "You mean it?" a grumble from his stomach betrayed Veemon's thoughts, more specifically, how hungry he was.

          "Of course…" When was the last time they went out like this, anyway? A _long_ time ago. "You sound like you need some, anyway…" he added. "C'mon," he hand led the dragon to the open door, closing it on the way out.

          Yamaki fumbled for his keys to lock the place down. After all, it wouldn't be nice to come home after an _early_ morning entrée just to see that you've been burglarized under your nose. "What about your girl?"

          The Hypnos Director slipped the key in and turned it, checking the doorknob after pulling the metallic strip out. "I told you already, she's not my girl!"

          "Right…" Veemon rolled his eyes yet again as they began to walk down the hallway towards the elevator. This was going to be a very interesting night out indeed.

          She was running. That was all she could tell at the moment, besides the fact that she knew who she was running from. Men in black, dozens of them, followed closely from behind, shouting and taking potshots at her every now and then. Dim lights lit a darkened lobby, potted plants twisted into hideous monstrosities that were seen only in Disney movies where the "_scared little girl"_ character who was being chased by goons ran into a dark forest. Tiles on the floor kept a glassy look, reflecting every last bit of fear she felt like arrows to her soul. Plastic chairs broke off their support beams and grew legs, dancing in a cancan-like fashion, but not so much as though they were even noticed by the people involved in the chase. The place was so surreal, but she knew where she was. Tokyo International Airport.

          She could see the light of the exit, oh so beautiful. She continued running, so close to freedom. The fact that she was slowing down considerably didn't help. _This is bad…_ The worst was still yet to come, however, as the light was blocked by a sheet of more men in black who seemingly came out of nowhere and stood in the doorframe, guns drawn and trained at her.

          Highly pressurized gunshots were heard. She could swear she saw those bullets head straight for her, slow as snails, yet did nothing. There were too many to dodge. She continued to stare as she kept her slow pace towards the door. Impact. An intense throbbing in her chest made itself known to existence, her nerves burning as she continued. Second impact. If, she had an excuse for why her head beat with pain instead of exploding right then and there, she would've used it immediately. She didn't. Several more penetrated her being, although she no longer felt them.

          It was when the last bullet entered her that the floor split apart, darkness swallowing her like a drowning mariner as she fell into the never-ending abyss that awaited beneath. Her last conceivable thoughts were summed up in one word, "DAMMIT!"

Residential Unit 1709, 17th Floor - NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku Tokyo

Thursday, 0519 Hours, Local Time

          Rika Nonaka woke with a start. Another dream. This time, the pain was so real that she could still feel it. _Wait a minute…_ she _could_ still feel it! Her breathing was labored, as though she were suffering from an asthmatic attack. Her head felt like it would crack open any second. Her chest continued to throb the same way it did in her dream. "What's… happening to me?" The pains started the day before, almost immediately after she finished her physical. At first they were slight and localized, but as the day progressed, they grew worse, and spread through out her upper torso and the back of her head. She'd been hauled up in her room ever since.

          She stood up, proceeded to the bathroom sink, and opened the cupboard, grabbing a bottle of aspirins. If her chest pains weren't going away, she should at least try to alleviate the relentless throbbing of her head. The screw cap went off, and a few white tablets fell into her hand. Coupled with a drinking glass' worth of tap water, they went down her throat with little to no resistance whatsoever.

          It was only when she closed the cupboard and peered into the mirror that she garnered the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Sure, Virgin was watching every room inside NS-8, but besides her presence, the redhead could sense that of another, more perverse sentience within her immediate vicinity. "Virgin?"

          "Yes, Agent Nonaka?" the Virtual Digital Nexus replied in her usual cheery, computerized tone. It was hard to explain being in more than one place at a time, as well as simultaneously talking to more than one person. On an average, Virgin conversed with at least half of NS-8's populace at any given time. That was one advantage of having multiple consciousnesses to boot, the primary always sticking to the directors. They all shared the same memories, personalities, and opinions, but it was the primary consciousness that always made the big decisions herewith.

          "Is there anybody else inside the room?" Rika asked with a hint of pained effort in her voice. Her head wasn't getting any better, and her chest just got worse.

          A slight pause before the digital sentience could answer, "Thermal, Optical, Sonic, Digital, and Biological sensors don't register anything, Agent Nonaka. There's no one in the room besides us. Is something wrong? Your breathing seems to be labored." As with every other Network Security Operative, Rika's physical condition was being monitored by Virgin's biological scanner.

          "No duh, Sherlock…" Nonaka mumbled as she continued to stare into the mirror. It was almost as though the girl on the other side of the glass had a life of her own, seemingly ready to reach through the reflective portal and choke her counterpart on this side… a thought that sent a chill up the Digimon Queen's spine. "Just a little pain here and there… I must be stressed out. Nothing a little rest wouldn't help."

          "Of course. I was about to suggest the same thing."

          The NS-8 Operative fell on her bed face first. It wasn't as crowded as a bunk, but not exactly a queen sized bed, either. Just right for an average lonely person's taste in sleeping furniture. "Tell them not to disturb me unless it's something very important."

          "Noted. Anything else?"

          "Not really…" Nonaka muttered into her pillow, implying that she definitely didn't want to be disturbed. Even as Virgin decided to completely leave her alone and shut off the cameras in the room, Rika remained conscious of the presence that still lingered somewhere dangerously close to her. It was _then_ that she sensed a thought not of her own cross her mind. __

_          Friendrika finally knowing I here. That very nice. Now me getting to know friendrika very personal._

"What the?" That was her voice, in her head, without her articulate grammar. Something was not right with the world.

          _What the what? Me no understanding what friendrika saying…_ It was like she was talking – thinking to herself in the way a person monologues, with the exception being she didn't know what the other character she was playing was going to say next.

          "I must be going nuts… I could almost swear I'm hearing voices in my head." she still couldn't believe it. She definitely needed to go to Sazaki for a psychiatric evaluation before further notice.

          _You not nut, friendrika… you hearing me quite right. We stick together like glue for looooooooong time. _A sharp pain speared through her chest, even worse than the previous aches. _Friendrika__ not want to get rid of me. Me too important to be gotten rid of._ It was almost as if this voice was using the pain to prove it was real, manipulating it to keep control over her, much like a master and slave.

          "What the hell… are you?" this presence… why was it even here in the first place?

          _Me not sure, but maybe friendrika could answer that for me._ _Right?_ Another wave of pain shot through her upper torso, seemingly having a life of its own as her mind was clouded by the image of an unearthly creature clawing its way out of her body, leaving a bloody mess surrounding her corpse as the former scuttled off to wreak havoc inside NS-8. This idea was, of course, spawned from watching too many B-Grade sci-fi/horror movies over the past week, like 'The Virtually Indestructible Brain-Eating Brain From the Planet Kookamunga', or 'The Hideous Chest-Bursting Creature From the Bottom of Squealer's Lake', and flicks with even worse titles.

          "I'm guessing you're some kind of alien life form…" although it was only a hunch, what else could it possibly be? It wasn't like humans were capable of creating such a thing as sentience – _Okay, with the exception of digimon and Virgin… _but what kind of creature could be so cruel? Gods knew but maybe it was some kind of split personality of hers. In the case of multiple personality disorders, though, one persona could not possibly be conscious at the same time as the other, except in rare cases, which turned up only so often that even top of the line psychiatrists didn't know how to handle such situations.

          Or it could've been something else. She knew about the ADR that mimicked Jeri, recalling even having encountered it at least once or twice during the Reaper's onslaught. What she was mixed-up with right now was most probably something similar to that. But how was that possible? D-Reaper was down in hibernation… wasn't it? And if, indeed, she was messing up with an ADR, then it should at least have a syntax level of an adult. "You're an Agent D-Reaper… right?" This came out prematurely, since she still hadn't really decided on that yet.

          _D-Reaper is nothing compared to me. Friendrika should come to understand that._ As if that wasn't enough, 'she' decided to 'convince' 'her' 'friend' by sending another agonizing jolt through the nerves within the area of Nonaka's chest. _I representative of far greater power than friendrika can possibly imagine._

          "I guess I was wrong… What do you want from me, anyway?" whatever reason for making contact with her it had, it couldn't possibly be good, since it was acting like a real bitch… not to mention a sadistic control freak determined to break its defenseless prey.

          _Like I say earlier, friendrika… you and me… we stick together like glue for loooooong time. But for now, I let you think over what I just said. _With that last chilling statement, the voice's invisible embodiment was no longer present. The pain in her chest and the throbbing in her head subsided. Most evident of all, however, was the fact that she no longer felt the perverted sensation of being watched.

          _This looks like something I'm going to have to keep to myself._ It then struck her as to the fact that she still didn't know what to call the mysterious sentience… It was, in a sense, an inner demon, something she must handle by herself, hence the secrecy. Sensibly enough, when shorted into an acronym, inner demon became Id, intense internal desires that need to be literally chained to prevent them from taking over your will and reducing you to a greedy, perverted, and basically negative person. _Then Id it is…_ with this in mind, Rika finally drifted off into the sleep that she needed.

Briefing Room, 14th Floor - NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Thursday, 1627 Hours, Local Time

          "Look, I'm sorry about mentioning Renamon—" Takato Matsuki covered his mouth as his conversational partner flinched at the mentioned name. "I mean, you-know-who, but… well, you know… since the Tamers have been getting their partners back one by one and all…" He had previously received an email from Kenta, who was now living somewhere in Hokkaido, about how Marine Angemon had suddenly appeared inside his bathtub while he was in the middle of a bubbly-wubbly… uh… cleansing exercise. This was shortly followed by one from Kazu, who now dwelled in the Entertainment District of Asuka, that a Hagurumon practically destroyed the stereo set the latter had popped out of during a late night rave party being held by the former at his place.

So the Digimon Queen still didn't have her partner back. What else was new? Well, there was the fact that he had just seen a human being die in front of his eyes, and the idea of meeting someone who could be an alternate version of Hikari Kamiya, who he still happened to have a crush on after all these years. Lucky a bastard as he was in meeting a clone of the girl of his dreams, sadly, she was already taken. "Oh well… hey, what happened to the Pan-Digital Something?"

          "You mean Sakamori didn't tell you?" Rika raised an eyebrow at how uninformed he was. NS-8 was a high standard-bearing NS Cell and their supposedly updated data networks met one of those standards. He was going to be a problem. "Whole thing was some kind of setup. I'll go into the details later. Right now though—" She sighed in weariness as she reclined into her chair, closing her eyes just as Director Pan stepped into the room, a folder's worth of papers in one hand, half-eaten Guilmon Roll in the other.

          "Now's not the time to be taking naps, Agent Nonaka," he turned his attention to Takato, who was just about to rest his head on the makeshift nest his arms had made on the briefing room's table, just in front of his touch screen terminal. "And I hope you're not going to do what I think you're going to do, Agent Matsuki… it's not good to be sleeping on the job, you know." He took another raucous bite out of the digimon-shaped pastry as Takato snapped back into attention. "Much better." The rather bloated bearded deputy director sat at the head. "We're going to wait for a while for the rest of the crew to arrive. And Agent Matsuki?"

          "Yes sir?" He'd heard that Sakamori was spending the rest of week off with his family, leaving the fat, bread-eating guy in charge. Funny how he never talked about them… It was even funnier how Rika's mother had called his parents that morning, saying they were going to spend the weekend in Hawaii with 'a long lost relative'. The million-dollar question then was, 'did both events have anything to do with each other?'

Ever since the whole D-Reaper incident, the primary Tamers' families had decided to 'get to know' each other more and ended up as good friends… It was typical and so in-tune with the saying that said, "Crises bring out the best in all of man." Of course, this involved people getting to know each other more as they helped each other out during some kind of big time crisis. He'd learned as much from watching all those 'natural disaster' movies. _Some guys are just so lucky to have control of their own schedule…_ the Tamer cringed at that last word. As far as he could tell, he had no control whatsoever over _his_ schedule.

          "Would you mind asking your parents to ready and deliver another extra large package of Guilmon Rolls for tomorrow? I think this is the last one…" Pan was the only exception to his family bakery's 'no-more-mon' policy, which stated that they no longer made Guilmon rolls for sale. Since Pan had a 'Bottomless Government Issue Credit Card', however, he was lucky enough to be given pardon from the stated policy, making him… Well, Takato didn't know what that exemption made him, except… fatter.

          "Yes, sir…"

          Pan tossed the last piece of the creatively crafted piece of bread into his pie hole as he sat down, aligning the papers in his other hand by shaking them into place a little. "While we're waiting, I suppose I should give you an update on what's going on, eh?" Both teens nodded. "Alright. Agent Matsuki, the information you and Yamamoto retrieved was just what we needed to find out a few things concerning the Agency's Directors. I appreciate the sacrifices you made to do so." It was then that Yamamoto stepped into the room, followed by a rather sleepy Sazaki, who apparently, hadn't rested for another six hours after she heard what happened. "Sit down, you two." NS-8's deputy director waited until they were seated before he continued, "Surprising thing is, half of the Agency's Directors were hiding in plain sight, the place where we'd least expect them to be."

          "Yeah…" Sazaki added a little insight to the apparently one-sided conversation, "Who'd have thought that Jacob Marlon, the guy who looks like the dude from the Matrix, was actually the Agency's Chief?"

          "True, but more disturbing is the idea that there's still the mystery of who the 'founder' that Omar Ben Gazarra Al-Deev had mentioned." Pan reminded, "In any case, here are the profiles on some of the Agency's office Directors…" He placed one of his papers on the scanner, high-speed connection doing its job quite well. The image of an Asian man nearing senior citizenship age came forth. "For those of you who don't already know him, this is Tsing Gao Lieang, a former general of the People's Republic Army who decided he could make more money off owning a D-Tech office in China. Born in Guangzhou on October 12, 1946, this guy has warmonger written all over him and frequently purchases weapons of mass destruction from brokers on the global black market."

          "To think the Chinese already have enough problems with their population and leftover influence from Russia," Rika shook her head, "Now they have this nut to deal with too?"

          "Let NS-7 handle that, Agent Nonaka." Pan switched to the next profile sheet. This time, a middle-aged Arabic man appeared, "Omar Ben Gazarra Al-Deev. Born Al Qusayr, Syria on February 16, 1956, he's on the US's Top 50 Most Wanted Terrorists List for being an Al Quida Leader and threatening to bomb American Embassies in the Middle East. Obviously, he's in charge of the Agency's Middle Eastern Office, which, has yet to be located."

          "Terrorists… don't we have enough of them already?" Yamamoto commented rather harshly. "Maybe we should try doing something about it…"

          "Jurisdiction, Agent Yamamoto… Remember that." the deputy director placed yet another one on the scanner. A blond European with a rather callous air about him came into view. A ponytail went down the back of his neck, complimented by his cold green eyes. "This is Cameron MacLeod, CEO and Chairman of Xabercom, one of D-Tech's closest corporate allies. Apparently, he's inherited the entire company from his father, Lucas MacLeod, who inherited it from his father… you kids get the idea. Historical records indicate that Xabercom goes back to the renaissance period, when the founder, also named Cameron MacLeod, set it up in London as a weapons research and development guild. This evolved into the multinational weapon sales conglomerate that's now into development of the Ion Particle Weaponry that's so popular in sci-fi videogames these days." Pan shook his head at the absurdity of the said genre, "MacLeod was born in Scotland, 1969… that's all the records have on him. No family besides his father, who nobody has ever seen him with, no wife, no second degree relatives, no primary, secondary, and college education… hell, the bastard doesn't even have insurance, which is pretty strange for an extremely rich person! It's like reading a near-blank sheet of paper!"

          "Must be a really private kinda guy…" Takato mumbled.

          Pan switched profiles again, another European fellow appearing on screen. "Vladimir Skatakov. Director of the KGB… not much to say here. Born in Leningrad, June 27, 1957. Russian Office's director and a real pen pusher… but enough about him. It's time for the big cheese…" The piece of bond was replaced by the last one they had, "This is Jacob Marlon, the Agency's 'Big Kahuna' who was born in Boise, Idaho on September 16, 1954. Studied Business management in the Ivy League in 1974 and joined the army a couple of years later. Ended up as the commander of a Delta Force unit for a few years and retired to go full-time with D-Tech in 1994, where he landed as CEO a couple of years later when its former President, Johnny Walker, was assassinated." Paper was removed from the scanner. "There are around five more, but we're still trying to identify them. So in the meantime, I suppose I'll just give you all an update on what our next step is."

          The NS-8 deputy director brought out a CD and placed it into his terminal's ROM. "Just sit back and enjoy the show…" it was the recording of the meeting, part specially noted was concerning Project: Commac. "If we were to continue this video any more, it would take too long to understand, so I'll just cut to the chase. Every Agency Director eventually declined Marlon's offer with the exception of MacLeod, who now has possession of the Commac Project's Schematics. From what they've shown us thus far, if these things get out into the global black market, the whole balance of military power as we know it could be flipped upside down. Intelligence Section indicates that MacLeod has returned to London and is currently utilizing Xabercom's resources to develop an even more advanced version of Marlon's already destructive Commac."

          Yamamoto interjected once again, "Pardon me, sir, but isn't it NS-3's job to take care of that?" this was of course, a veiled retort at that 'jurisdiction' thing Pan had mentioned earlier.

          "True, but von Felnickstein is well aware of our contribution to this data." Schubert von Felnickstein has been NS-3's Director since Network Security's founding in 1945 and was the last active (if not living) member of the first generation of the Executive Twelve. Gods knew why he was still capable of commanding an organization as large as that since he was at least 50 when the UN was founded. Even stranger was the fact that he always remained in perfect health, which was uncanny for a man of his speculated age. Some say it was because of his healthy eating habits… others say it was because he was a major shareholder for Nutrilite. "Because of NS-8's helping reveal the existence of this project, NS-3 is willing to share the spoils of their operation with us." he casually pointed at Rika, who raised an eyebrow at him, "Nonaka, you are to join a tactical unit assembled by von Felnickstein to infiltrate and get the discs containing Project Commac's data. You leave for Munich in one hour."

          "Munich? Now hold on one second here… Munich? As in Germany?" The Digimon Queen always wanted to see the place. She'd heard much about Germany from her bedroom conversations with Virgin, and from what she was told, it was a sight to be seen indeed. It was somewhat a dream come true, if one looked at it from that perspective.

          "That's right… Germany." Pan fixed his papers and brought out a Three Musketeers Bar, nibbling on the chocolate covered caramel and nougat treat. There was nothing like it. Sure, bread was his favorite, but that didn't mean there wasn't any room for other foods, of course.

          "Do I get some time off for a tour of the place?" Nonaka half-joked, even though she meant what she was saying.

          Pan almost choked on his chocolate bar. _The Digimon Queen asking for some time off to tour a place!? Impossible…_ He didn't baby her like what his boss was doing. That wasn't a good thing to do to a subordinate. They'd eventually get spoiled… like this one. It was then when the bread eater figured out her joke and realized it wasn't funny. The answer came in a bland and stoic statement, "No."

To Be Continued…

          "So I tells _him_," Ironheart continued in his ridiculous Texan accent, "To get his stinkin' boots off mah ass and stick 'em up someone else's!" The trio of fighter pilots started chuckling somewhat annoyingly, that was until a rude beeping sound on Ironheart's console disturbed their conversation. Cutting the chatter, he turned to see what was going on, although his ears had already told him all he needed to know. Visual contact had merely established more problems, as he, in a panic, brought the radio back on, for a more serious reason than congenial babble, "LASER LOCK! BREAK! BREAK!" This exclamation, however, seemed a moment too late as Ironheart's voice was drowned, that very second, in both a sudden burst of static, and the thundering roar of his F-117 igniting into a ball of fire care of a high powered laser that seemed to come from somewhere on the ground.

          "Jesus H. Christ!" Bogey Hunter did the most logical thing and made 180 degrees in order to buy him time to find out just what exactly shot his friend down. He made another smooth turnaround over the canopy of buildings, getting just what he wanted to see in view of his infrared sensors. What had turned up next utterly shocked him even more. He was staring at something straight out of his favorite game from the 'Blow Some Shit to Hell With a Giant Robot' genre, Mechwarrior. "Mad Cat…" he mumbled to himself as he armed his missiles, knowing very well that the Kepler would give permission to return fire anyway.

          Foxtrail, however, was ignorant enough to follow SOP and radio the massive aircraft carrier for support, "Mayday! Mayday! This is Bravo-Zero-Three to Tango-Oscar-Niner reporting Code Lightsaber! Repeat: Code Lightsaber! We are under attack by hostiles with laser weaponry! Request permission to engage!"

          The voice that came back through the radio was calm, as though they knew what was going on all along, "Copy that, Bravo-Zero-Three. Permission granted. Just stay frosty out there, you hear? Friendlies are en route to your vector, ETA two minutes." That statement, however, didn't seem to reassure the pilot at all as he armed his own missiles and took lock on the strange machine that loomed overhead.

On a bench several rooftops away, Ryo Akiyama reclined, eyes glued to a pair of infrared binoculars, apparently having nothing better to do than watch this little spectacle he had set up thanks to the Agency's knowledge of the United States' Military system, as well as the said superpower's overseas activities. It was time to show them just what he and his buddy were capable of doing, even when put up against the _only _United States military aircraft that hadn't been shot down ever since it first came into service… until now. _F-117 Nighthawk indeed…_ he thought as he increased the magnification level to what he considered a comfortable view, "Showtime, partner…"

AN: You think that was crazy? Try this scene…

          "You have no right to criticize what he died for!" With that, the girl redoubled her efforts and charged full force at the man, who was far more than ready to begin parrying stoke after stroke of her saber. The deadly dance of enraged proportions carried on with the man on his defensive. She slashed, he parried, and vice versa. Any spectator would've deduced it to be no more than a stalemate, a deadlock, a log jam. They were going nowhere fast.

          _Slash_ – an innocent cardboard box sitting in the way was carved in two.

_          Parry_ – this caused quite a dent in the man's katana.

_          Slash_ – the man dodged as saber cut deep into a wooden support beam and came out again, ready to strike once more

_          Parry _– the man stumbled on a stool that was behind him but stood up with regained composure almost immediately, blocking the next incoming attack.

_          Slash_ – the girl yelled as she managed to cut her adversary by the torso, although it was but a flesh wound.

_          Parry _– sparks flew as the saber's edge scraped against his sword's own.

He knew he shouldn't have underestimated her. _Rage does wonders for the body…_ It was either that, or the intense adrenaline rush that resulted from it. _Time to do a little morale degradation…_ _Slash_, "Why waste his time and talents on a weakling such as yourself?" _Parry, _"He was foolish enough to think that you were capable of surviving on your own once taught properly." _Slash, _"He might've been correct in factoring your adrenaline into a battle but…" _Parry,_ "Oh, hell, let's just end this!"

          The swordfight continued without another word as she began to gain the upper hand, constantly driving him back towards a brick wall, hitting everything that fell into the path of her saber whenever he managed to dodge, causing friction-based sparks to fly. If he didn't do something fast, he was going to lose his head to this little slut… and he could never let that happen. Too much was at stake for such an allowance. He thought fast and began to search for the right moment; the point where she was most vulnerable; the split second just after she swung that sword. _THERE!_ His hands moved, swift and sure, guiding his blade from a parry to a thrust that went straight into her.

The girl's eyes widened in realization as cold steel entered her being, sharp, precise, and powerful. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the numbing pain spread like noxious fumes throughout her body. Pale brown, neck length locks that should have been flying forward simply hung next to her face, suspended and bent awkwardly in an obtuse angle. The blade's tip, and pretty much of the rest of it exited her torso through her back, smeared a bright living crimson with her own blood.

Saber was dropped as she fell to her knees, staring wearily and somewhat defiantly at the man who smirked dirtily as he twisted his wrist, embedded blade following suit. She couldn't scream for the pain, the pain, was too intense, too much. Her universe currently had two centers: her adversary's hating face, and the unexplainably sickening sensation caused by the weapon that, by physical standards, was still within her.

Slowly, he withdrew. She could feel the battle-dented edge scrape against her internal organs, dealing more damage than what had already been accomplished. As soon as its presence left her body, she clutched at the graciously large run-through wound in her abdomen. It stung like hell. The man swerved the blade into what looked like a beheading position, and finally spoke after minutes of silence. "I suppose the best way to disarm your enemy is to run him through. The natural reaction for somebody who's been run through is to get down, either on all fours or his knees, depending on their pain tolerance. I'm surprised you're part of the latter group. We might be capable of living forever, but we can still feel pain. And as much fun as this battle has been, I'm afraid we've reached the point where I have to remind you, my dear Ms. Kamiya, that there can be only **_one_**." Final speech said, he swung his trusted blade down at her neck… producing the expected results.

AN: Ah, finally! I'm done! Stayed up all night writing that last scene… let's see… time: 8:29 AM. Very early. Hopefully, this would satisfy. I seriously don't know what to do now, with school coming up within the next three weeks. It's unbelievable how summer can just slip by you like that! Time to say goodbye to High School, I guess… even though I have ten more months to go. Oh, well, expect another update some time this year. Hopefully, I can get it done before the second semester. In the meantime, watch out for updates to Vector. I just might post one up to greet my goddamned school year hello. As always, this is Fizzy 13, asking you to review!!!


	8. CHAPTER 8

AN: This is going to include what you might take as a pointless sub-plot about a disgruntled naval officer and his fleet, but who even cares about that? Preparation for the raid on Xabercom. Kari loses her head. Literally. What the hell she's doing in this fic in the first place. What MacLeod really is.

newb: Thanks for keeping in touch… I really needed the encouragement.

FAX: That's really touching, you know… thanks a lot. I never thought anybody would go through the hassle of reading the entirety of what I'd posted so far. Now I know I can continue this thanks to everybody, especially you.

Disclaimer: I do not own Digimon, I do not own anything here… except maybe the Agency. The concept of immortal people running around and cutting each heads off in dark alleys/corners/places (in general) to gain possession of each others' power until only one is left belongs to Gregory Widen (in layman's terms, Highlander). I consider part of this chappie as sort of a tribute to him and his great idea. The US Carrier Battle Group Kepler is completely fictional, so are all of its crewmembers. Stanley Darington being President is as unreal as Pinocchio since Bush miraculously won himself a second term. Besides, putting non-fictional, non-historical people into fics is ILLEGAL! Okay? Good… now that we got that settled, can we get on with the fic now?

**Falling Hawks and Latina Bambinas **

Briefing Room, NS-3 Headquarters, Catacomb Level 4 - The Frauenkirche, Munich

Thursday, 1413 Hours, Local Time

The unforgettable sight - of the thousands of corpses that have been embalmed and buried over the centuries - lingered in Rika's eyes as she crossed over from the medieval dark and dank of the subterranean catacombs beneath the Frauenkirche into the modern design of NS-3's primary. Being a German term, not many foreigners really understood what 'Frauenkirche' was, moreover what it had to do with the 'Church of Our Lady'. That it was simply how the locals preferred to call it, a nickname that certainly had much more convenience than saying the whole four words repeatedly.

Built from 1468 to 1488, Frauenkirche and its twin onion-like domes that rested atop the two symmetrical towers on the west side of the cathedral - built in the flamboyance of the Gothic style - have, over the ages, become the very symbol of Munich itself. A mere two blocks southeast of this awesome structure was an even grander sight to behold; the heart of the city, the Marienplatz square, which contained the Gothic Old City Hall, built in 1470, and the neo-Gothic New City Hall, which was constructed at the end of the 19th century. Two of the main streets that connected to the Merienplatz led to the Karlstor and Isartor gates, which have been around since medieval times.

All in all, Munich was one of the Federal Republic of Germany's cultural, commercial, and religious centers, not to mention the capital of the state of Bavaria. Its position on the Isar River, around 25 miles north of the Bavarian Alps, provided the best trade routes in the immediate area. One of its more tragic - and certainly more popular - stories revolved around the time when the Olympic games were held there, where Arab terrorists crashed the party by kidnapping and/or slaughtering the Israeli athletes who had come to compete. It was another grim reminder that nobody was safe when it came down to the terrorism issue. That was basically a summary of what Virgin had told the NS-8 Operative about the place. Nonaka ambled into the Briefing Room once Virgin's Western European Persona had confirmed her identity by means of DNA scanning.

She had met the Director himself earlier, a friendly elder by the name of Schubert von Felnickstein, who just happened to be praying at one of the, more or less, candle-covered altars in the church proper. There was something about him that just made whoever he met at home with having a short conversation. After a little chat about the Frauenkirche's history, the NS-8 Operative was instructed to talk to Brother Rhickt concerning the 'Mortuary Problem' that the church had 'deep' underground. "You never see how something like that could possibly connect…" The Digimon Queen eyed the main entrance just in time to notice the friar's chocolate colored hood gently waltz out of the door and back into the catacombs.

She sat down in one of the chairs, getting a feel for the place. Nothing new, really, in terms of style. This scene might as well have been taken from inside any office building in any modern city, judging from how plain the view was. Nonaka was currently dressed in the typical gray suit that went around so often these days. She could swear she saw eyes checking her out back there on the city streets. After all, what kind of sick woman would wear such an outfit with such a hairdo? The suit never did go with the stiff ponytail. She sighed and shook her head just as a blonde walked in and dropped into the seat opposite of her.

There was an air of familiarity around that girl. Those emerald eyes struck the NS-8 Operative as something that she'd seen before, the only question being as to _where_ she saw them. At least she got to choose her working clothes and dressed as any - _European?_ - 16-year-old would. Fastened to her head was a lavender ski cap, giving Rika the impression that she was one of Sora's long lost relatives or something. Further down was a horizontally striped blue and white midriff - _It's French, isn't is? Bust emphasis says it all… B? or C?_ - encased in a lavender sleeveless jacket, finishing off with a matching purple skirt below. Where had she seen her before? Nonaka's cerebellum operator grabbed a cartoon mallet and smashed open the piggybank of visual memories that resided in her head. It was then that the Digimon Queen noticed the man who was sitting silently at the head of the table, chair turned away from the conglomeration of glass, steel, and silicon as he read a copy of some random Shakespearean book.

It is said that all humans have a rather sub-psychic connection with each other, depicted by the fact that if ever somebody stared at you for an allotted period of time, sooner or later, you'd sense this and begin searching for whoever was spying on you. And so this fact's credibility was reinforced as Nonaka's gaze triggered the receptors in the man's brain, causing him to turn around and close his book, gently placing it in front of his terminal. Rod Sloane ran a hand through his slick black hair and eyed the red head. "Rika Nonaka I presume…" he beamed, "I'm Rod Sloane, NS-3's Deputy Director." The accent told her everything she needed to know. He was a Brit.

Sloane had quite an impressive record. Five years in the Royal Air Force (RAF), seven in the Special Air Service (SAS), another six at the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), formerly known as MI-6 (Military Intelligence Section 6), and the last decade or so at NS-3, have each contributed to his experience and credibility as a soldier and commander. His current rank, Lt. Colonel, a mere two ranks away from General, spoke for itself. "I assume that you're ready to do this? The rest of the team should be here shortly and we'll be able to begin soon enough. In the meantime, I would like to introduce you to your team leader…" he gestured to the blonde, who was now smirking, as though she had anticipated some sort of reaction from the NS-8 Operative.

"Izumi Orimoto, this is Rika Nonaka. Rika Nonaka, Izumi Orimoto." The two exchanged glances. "We call her Zoë for short. She's from Italy."

"It's interesting, don't you think?" Rika was the first of the two to speak.

"What?" Orimoto didn't quite get that remark.

"That you're from Italy yet your name sounds Grade-A Japanese." It was the queen's turn to smirk. Mind games was one of the things she'd learned from those long nights of talking to Virgin just for the heck of it. Ask a question, spike a comment, whatever, and wait for your opponent's reaction. Although there was the problem of confusion that the Id posed… whatever it was doing right now. "Are your parents descended from Japan or did your father go there on a business trip?"

It was quite a confusing topic indeed, but the younger of the two could catch up quite a lot, if not just a little. "Actually, I've got dual citizenship. I'm both Japanese, _and_ Italian. Ethnically speaking, however, I'm from the same homeland as you."

This answer was startling. Nonaka didn't see that one coming. _Damn! Everybody wants to be like Mimi…_

"You see, my parents," she trailed off into a whisper, "Or at least the 'here' equivalent of my parents…" Zoë's volume went up again, "They go to Italy frequently on business trips, naturally, taking me with them. We usually stay in Tokyo's Shibuya district, although this year, things are pretty busy. They're quite active in the trade. My mother's a fashion designer, you see… and dad's into marketing."

"Shibuya, eh?" It was around then that the fundamental question hit her. Why was she recruited in the first place? A Tamer, most probably. If so, however, where was her partner? Could it be possible that she was recruited for some other talent or reason? "Okay… but explain to me why you were recruited in the first place. From your age group I can tell it's probably because you're a Tamer. Correct?"

"Eh…" Orimoto fumbled for words in her pocket of vocabularies, "Something like that… I don't have a partner, though…"

_That's an interesting concept…_ "Well, what _do_ you have, anyway?" That slightest tinge of familiarity with this girl was still gnawing at Nonaka's consciousness. Where had she seen her before? Where did she hear that name before? Why did that short reference to family business trips seem to her as if she knew it all along? _Who the hell are you, Orimoto? _Perhaps Rika had acquired Alscheimer's Disease or something...

Orimoto's hushed answer was overshadowed by the advent of two boisterous men who looked like they had just come from a bar. One had the hair, nose, and eyes of a Frenchman, verified by his accent and the terrible English with which he spoke to the other, a blonde, the accent of whom proved him to be Irish. The two stole a glance at Rika, whose eyebrow was raised at the pair in utter surprise and confusion, then shifted their gaze to Sloane, who was shaking his head disapprovingly at them, and finally, to Zoë, who was looking back with a single line for an eyebrow. They quieted and sat down in opposing seats.

Sloane snapped his fingers right then, apparently to get everybody's attention. "Well, now that everybody's here, allow me to finish the introductions." The NS-3 Deputy Director gestured to the Frenchie, "This is Jean Paul Turois, your communications specialist. He's had six years working with NATO as a spotter. He might seem a little annoying to you at first, but let him do his job, and he'll do his best to help out with yours."

Turois smiled at the redhead with all the charm he could muster. He wasn't 20 anymore, that was certain. He was something more on the lines of two-past-thirty, but that didn't stop him from trying. Girls have been his thing ever since Primary school, and he was far from through playing his little game. "I am pleased to see that the Orient has raised some _lovely_ roses, and so, I am greatly honored to meet you, mademoiselle." The Frenchman threw a flying kiss in Nonaka's direction.

This hadn't shaken her usual icy composure. After all, sweet talk wasn't the kind of thing that really got to her core. She needed something big… something dramatic… something like -

_CLICK!_

The sound of a pin being ripped out of a parent grenade brought her attention to the Irishman, who was smiling, the familiar metal ring between his teeth, as he held the coarse, oblate form of a grenade in his right hand. Rika's initial reaction was to dive beneath the table, but, seeing as the Irishman didn't seem to do anything to get rid of it, figured it was a dud and sat back to watch.

"Kevin's the name… Kevin Murphy."

It was at this point that Sloane decided to remark on this astounding prankster of an operative, "Lieutenant Murphy was one of my… eh…" The NS-3 Deputy Director stammered for words, "Colleagues, at the SAS. He specializes in-"

"Blowin' things ta smithereens." Murphy interjected, spitting the pin into one of the many garbage chutes that lined the table. "And if yer thinkin' what I think yer thinkin', lassie, then yer thinkin' wrong. This grenade ain't a dud. 'Tis quite live, it is." The grenade soon followed its pin down the chute. "Ya see, it's got a delayed timer-" The loud roar of an explosion far down below was heard - "That gives it another ten seconds or so before things get really heated up."

Most underground NS Cells had a very effective waste disposal system, in the sense that they didn't really need to call in the dump truck. Most trash that went down those chutes suffered fates similar to what Luke Skywalker and company experienced inside the Death Star's trash bin. For the convenience of some people who didn't see Star Wars, it was the scene that popularized the "Trash Compaction Chamber of Doom" scene, complete with a creepy monster that plowed through the murky depths of the heavily polluted sewage. To put it simply, most underground NS Cells had a trash compaction chamber that, on trash days, cranked up to squeeze a maximum of about a hundred or so tons of garbage into the size of an average TV set. The compaction panels were composed of something like fifty tons of titanium steel, backed up by several hundred thousand Newtons' worth of force. Definitely more than enough to crush that much trash. It would take far more than a simple grenade to even scratch such heavily plated structure.

"And I suppose you were the one who thought of doing that with an outdated frag grenade?" Nonaka was amazed at Murphy's seeming adoration of things that went boom. Still, it could be that the reason demolition experts remained in their field for extensive periods of time was because of that. The fragmentation grenade was practically from the same generation of explosive as WWII Potato Mashers, hence, it was the third oldest known explosive in the world, to dynamite, that is. What wonders modern ingenuity had done for such a weapon! _Convince them it was a dud, then, when they drop it and start laughing, boom! Goodbye, Charlie!_

"Well, it took some work, and certainly lots of time…" The Irishman smirked, "But it was worth it." Murphy tore his jacket open to reveal probably something that only the movies dared to show. Strapped to his torso and the inside of his jacket was every kind of conventional explosive available. Dynamite, hand grenades, fragmentation grenades, HE grenades, C4, _firecrackers_, ball bombs, bottles of nitroglycerine, WWII 'Potato Mashers', even a pouch that contained gunpowder. Kevin Richard Murphy, NS-3 Dem-Op Specialist, was a walking, talking, real life human bomb. From the looks of things, he seemed more fit destroying government buildings and killing children with those blokes at the IRA than doing these things with a UN-Administered Agency.

Sloane cleared his throat to get everybody's attention again. "We all know why we're here today, correct? Well then, let me begin briefing you." That was when an aged businessman-type stepped through the door. He appeared respectable enough, although his powder white hair looked like it had better days behind them. The untrimmed mustache, taken together with the rest of his facial features, would give anyone who didn't know any better the impression that Einstein had risen from the dead. There was an air about him that made everybody silent as they watched him slowly, calmly, and quietly traverse the distance between Sloane and himself.

"Zat von't be necessahy, Mishta Shloane," he was referring to how his assistant was about to stand up and hand the seat over to him. "I vill shtand heah und zee how jhou fair in a bhiefing."

Sloane wasn't used to giving briefings, and his former calm had merely been a façade, which would've worked, had not von Felnickstein entered the room. "Right…" the NS-3 Deputy Director answered with a tinge of British sarcasm. Calmly enough, he reached for a remote control on the table and tapped on one of its keys, bringing a picture of Cameron MacLeod - and those cold green eyes - to the display screen. "As you all know, last night, our colleagues over at NS-4, with assistance from the ever helpful teams from NS-8, uncovered the identities of some of the formerly anonymous Agency directors, as well as one of their developing schemes. Cameron MacLeod, CEO and direct descendant of his namesake ancestor who founded the Xabercom weapons R&D conglomerate, has been chosen to further a so-called "Commac Project" at his headquarters just outside London."

Sloane touched another key, resulting in another frame appearing on the screen; this time showing a bird's-eye-view of the Xabercom Compound. It was a large complex consisting of at least a dozen buildings, three large hangars, and a runway, presumably for military aircraft testing. The entirety of the little village was surrounded by 30-foot-high walls at least six feet thick. The only entrances were fortified in a way that even the guardhouses were a little too much even for a military installation. In the meantime, Murphy had produced a cotton swab and was currently cleaning his right ear.

Multitasking people were amazing indeed, but even in this kind of situation, was it possible to do so? Sloane didn't seem to bother as he switched frames to an isolated little structure within the bounds of a chain link fence surrounded by several heavily armed guards and English countryside.

"Just to tell you, we asked our good friends over at the SIS to do a little research on Xabercom's security system several months ago to ensure its safety from anybody who might try to break in and steal any untested ion-based weapon of some sort." He coughed at the irony of the fact that _they_ were the ones who were going to break in. "I must say that… as an expert in assessing security systems, theirs is second to none. We're talking about hidden cameras in almost every corner, laser tripwires for silent alarms where you least expect them, and, of all things, a maze-like structure that could and _would_ easily confuse anybody except employees… _and_ their fast-acting security team."

"So what's it got to do with that little shack out in the middle of nowhere?" Nonaka was surprised at the tenacity and professionalism of Orimoto's question. On one part, she was the kind who wanted to get to the point. On the other hand, however, she wasn't cutting Sloane any of the slack he expected from his first briefing.

"MacLeod's father, Lucas, figured that the best kind of power supply would be a hidden one, hence preventing the possibility of anybody cutting the power to the compound." Sloane flinched somewhat at the statement. He knew _much_ more than just that. He knew that Lucas MacLeod had been dead since 1142. He knew that Cameron MacLeod had been running around for the past 830 years or so, furthering whatever personal goals he's had ever since. He knew that he'd been evading suspicion by pretending to die every now and then and emerging as his 'son' a few years later. But what could Sloane do? That was his style, let him play it that way. After all, his only duty was to watch these people do their thing, whatever it was, without any interference whatsoever, and record it in the databanks, which have existed for millennia on hand. "So he had several of his most trusted subordinates cut a clearing in some woodland about ten miles south of the main compound and build Xabercom's main power generator there. This thing was designed to give out three times as much power as the entire facility requires because the current runs through three separate power lines on three different routes to the distribution generator in Xabercom itself. If one is cut, it won't affect the complex because the other two are still pumping away. However, SIS's research indicates that if you take out the generator itself, the power _will_ go out with a 10 minute or so delay until the backup generator goes online."

Sloane wiped his brow, which was sweating despite the air conditioning. "The loophole in MacLeod's plan was that he expected somebody to cut the power _then _go over to the main facility. He didn't consider the possibility of somebody cutting the power while a secondary party waited just out of sight of the guards for the lights to go out. And that's exactly what we're going to do. We'll have an SIS black op team, accompanied by our very own Kevin Murphy," Murphy grinned. _Joy, another demolition job…_ "Raid the generator and kill the lights, while you little girls steal the CD containing the schematics for the Commac Project. Remember that once it's lights out, you have ten minutes to get in, grab the disc, and get out. Turois will provide navigational support, taking care of your little problem with Xabercom's maze-like internal structure. Any questions?"

No further questions were asked.

Shinjuku District, Tokyo

Thursday, 2348 Hours, Local Time

There was nothing like cruising at a thousand feet above the concrete canopy of the city at around Mach 0.7 in a 35-million-dollar F-117 Nighthawk Stealth Fighter, and that was exactly what Lieutenant Thomas "Bogey Hunter" Brigman was doing at the moment. Although the rank didn't sound much, the US Naval Lieutenant was the equal of a Captain in the Army, Air Force, and Marines. He was currently wingman for this routine F-117 fly-over. These aircraft didn't originate from some distant American airbase in the Japanese countryside, though. No, they had come from straight off the coast of Tokyo bay; to be more precise, from the USS Kepler, flagship and only aircraft carrier in the nine-vessel United States Carrier Battle Group Kepler, which had been on assignment to patrol the skies of Japan for terrorist activity for the past six years. Apparently, the 9-11 attack of 2001 had triggered a mobilization of all the branches of the American military, including the Navy, to go forth and seek out terrorists within all of its allies _and_ enemies. Japan, of course, had proven itself to be one of the former. After all, why else would the Commander of the Pacific Fleet Marine Force base the third marine ground division and first aircraft wing in Okinawa?

For Brigman, all he'd ever experienced in this country was a practice bombing run or two, and - he shivered at the memory - the D-Reaper incident. This night, however, was as quiet as the rest before and after, all 2000+ flights during that period turning up empty handed. _As usual…_ he thought in either utter disappointment or concealed relief as he switched frequencies to the Kepler. _I guess it's time to report in…_ "This is Bravo-Zero-Two to Tango-Oscar-Niner, come in Tango-Oscar."

"We copy, Zero-Two," came the disembodied voice of one of the bridge's anonymous operators, although he could somehow tell who it was. "How's the weather out there?"

"Nothin' out 'ere but clear skies and moonlight, Meiyers." Brigman answered, his disappointment and/or relief manifesting itself in his voice, "This is our fourth re-sweep of the city. Any more and we'd probably run out of fuel. Face it man, the terrorists just aren't biting tonight…" _Or on any of the nights they sent us out_. "Why don't we just call it a night and send the Raptors out before the sun comes up or something?" Brigman could hear Meiyers' voice mix with another's, presumably the OIC - Officer In Charge - for the night flights, Commander Dillon Gavan, in some sort of conversation.

The operator came back a moment later, with not exactly an answer Brigman would've preferred, but was, more or less, satisfied with, "Commander Gavan wants you to do just one more sweep of the Shinjuku Ward, then you can come home, Zero-Two. Tango-Oscar, out." Bogey Hunter's radio went dead with static, causing him to switch back to the squadron's frequency.

"Can you believe this?" Lieutenant Matthew "Foxtrail" Hurrt's voice burst forth from the transceiver. "Bush sends us here telling us to always stay fully alert and expect major terrorist attacks on our overseas installations, and what the hell do we get so far? Diddly Squat, Ironheart! Diddly Squat! And now Darington's left cleaning up the old fart's international mess! I mean, you think Bin Laden would try another 9-11 here? The tallest building's forty stories high, dammit! Forty goddamned stories! I'm telling you, it's the earthquakes! They scare terrorists away!"

Brigman shook his head. Hurrt was the 'Ranting Swede' of the three, always complaining about something, although lacking the said cartoon character's accent. From the sound of things, he was having a nice little chat with the squadron leader, a Lt. Commander Eric "Ironheart" Clawes, your typical, jolly bastard. "Okay, break it up, you two. Command says to make one more sweep of the Shinjuku Area, then we can turn tails."

"Finally!" Clawes announced with a trace of exhaustion in his voice, "Alright, boys, take the elevation down to two hundred feet over the rooftops. After we fly over the target area, make the turn around and let's skedaddle." Brigman did just that.

"I'm telling you guys, save for a few Yakuza gigs the marines bust every now and then," Hurrt Rambled on, "There hasn't been a _shit_ of terrorist activity here for the last six years! Our trip here was worthless!"

"You do have to admit, though," Brigman cut in, "The Japs weren't kidding when they made those Godzilla movies. The place is just crawling with monsters…"

"Yeah, those Di-gi-ta-mon or something…" Hurrt thought in wonder, "Incredible what you can do with computers these days, eh? You can even make your own real monsters!"

"Of course there _was_ that _other_ thing… just a few days after new year 2002? Remember that thing?" Brigman chimed in. He'd had a few personal experiences with the nightmarish conception he was alluding to. "That D-Reaper is sure as hell gonna be my worst memory of this place."

"Oh yeah." Clawes tried to recall that time, "You flew a B-2 over that thing, right? While them "Digimon-kids" was fightin' it?"

Brigman was one of the six daring souls who tried their hands at piloting B-2 Spirit Stealth Bombers and dropping electronic/radio wave jammers into it. Each of the mysterious black birds had two-man cockpits, allowing space for up to the allotted number of pilots. "Heh… closest I ever got was a few hundred feet when we swooped in and laid down our payload of electronic radar jammers."

"What was it like?" Hurrt was probably looking for something new to rant about.

"Like someone dumped several thousand tons of strawberry, orange, and grape flavored Jell-O smack dab in the middle of Tokyo! Made me so sick I hurled on the flight deck when I got back…"

"Hey, guys?" Clawes wanted his shot. He was taking it. "Wanna hear the rest of my joke?" Brigman had told him to hold the rest of it back when he reported in to the Kepler. It would be most sensible to finish.

"Sure, why not?"

Clawes smiled as he took the shot. "Okay, so I tells _him_," he continued in the ridiculous Texan accent he used for joking, "To get his stinkin' shriveled wiener outta mah face and stick it into someone else's!" The trio of fighter pilots started chuckling at the punch line that only they seemed to understand; that was until a rude beeping sound on Clawes' console disturbed their conversation. Cutting the chatter, he turned to see what was going on, although his ears had already told him all he needed to know. Visual contact had merely established more problems, as he, in a panic, brought the radio back on, for a more serious reason than congenial babble, "LASER LOCK! BREAK! BREAK!" This exclamation, however, seemed a moment too late as his voice was drowned, that very second, in both a sudden burst of static, and the thundering roar of his F-117 igniting into a ball of fire care of a high powered laser that seemed to come from somewhere on the ground.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Brigman did the most logical thing and made a 180-degree turn in order to buy him time to find out just what exactly shot his friend down. He made another smooth turnaround over the canopy of buildings, getting just what he wanted to see in view of his infrared sensors. What had turned up next utterly shocked him even more. He was staring at something straight out of his favorite game from the 'Blow Some Stuff to Hell With a Giant Robot' genre, Mechwarrior. "Mad Cat…" he mumbled to himself as he armed his missiles, knowing very well that the Kepler would give permission to return fire anyway.

Hurrt, however, Ranting Swede that he was, was by-the-book enough to follow SOP and radio their parent aircraft carrier for support, "Mayday! Mayday! This is Bravo-Zero-Three to Tango-Oscar-Niner reporting Code Lightsaber! Repeat: Code Lightsaber! We are under attack by hostiles with laser weaponry! Zero-One is down and out! Request permission to engage!"

The voice that came back through the radio was calm, as though they knew what was going on all along. _Of course they do, you Chickenshit! Satellites!_ "Copy that, Zero-Three. Permission granted. Just stay frosty out there, you hear? Friendlies are en route to your vector, ETA eight minutes." That statement, however, didn't seem to reassure the pilot at all as he armed his own missiles and took lock on the strange machine that loomed overhead.

"Showtime, partner…" On a bench several rooftops away, Ryo Akiyama reclined, eyes glued to a pair of infrared binoculars, apparently having nothing better to do than watch this little spectacle he had set up thanks to the Agency's knowledge of the United States' Military system, as well as the said superpower's overseas activities. It was time to show them just what he and his buddy were capable of doing, even when put up against the _only _United States military aircraft that hadn't been shot down ever since it first came into service… until now. _F-117 Nighthawk indeed…_ he thought as he increased the magnification level to what he considered a comfortable view. "Nothing like front row tickets to the ultimate humiliation of American 'Air Superiority'."

Bridge, USS Kepler, Kepler Battle Group, Tokyo Bay

Thursday, 2355 Hours, Local Time

With the deafening roar of their thrusters burning behind them, the last of ten pairs of F-22 Raptors - they were on full alert, of course - catapulted off the massive aircraft carrier's deck and into the night sky above Tokyo bay. It was an awesome - yet at the same time gloomy - sight to behold; the pride of seeing the American military spending its best _on_ its best - accompanied by the fear that several of those brave men might never step on the deck ever again. _Planes and pilots are two very different things, _Vice Admiral Sean O'Harren reminded himself as he gulped down a Styrofoam cup's worth of three-in-one cappuccino. The former were replaceable… the latter were unique to the world.

He was in command of the USS Kepler, one of the latest aircraft carriers to come into service - just at the end of 1999, to be exact, designed to be a true flagship for any naval battle group. Its sheer size alone, approximately 1500 feet, was intimidating, and allowed it to carry over a hundred-fifty units of aircraft, most probably a large assortment of fighters, helicopter gunships, transport choppers, etc., which could be deployed at any given time. Majority of this multitude of vehicles remained on the second deck, just beneath the runway, for maintenance purposes, and were brought up via cargo elevator at the rear of the vessel. He wasn't proud of it, but it was a gigantic improvement of command from his last post, the USS Callahan, an aging destroyer from the early 70's that was twice as hard to maintain as the Kepler, which was almost thrice as large as the former. It was truly disappointing to see how even modern tools could not cure the problem of the decay and decrease in durability that followed age. She was, however, a good ship, and deserved her retirement. That was one more thing the vice admiral was thankful for.

"Give me the current flight status, Commander Gavan." O'Harren was a short, stocky man from Dublin, Irish in blood but American in spirit. His height of 3'5" might not have been what someone would consider intimidating, but he was intimidating whenever he wanted to, and height had nothing to do with that. It had, however, along with his orange hair and beard (he insisted it being auburn), earned him the highly inaccurate nickname "The Leprechaun", inaccurate for he was far from jolly and lax.

"Both the F-22 and Apache Squadrons are airborne and en-route to the Shinjuku district. ETA to rendezvousing with Bravo Squadron is three minutes." Gavan, on the other hand, was the kind of "man in uniform" that the military-marrying women chased after: high cheekbones, properly combed dirt blonde locks, gorgeous blue eyes, 6-foot frame, muscular but not too buff… Yet it was ironic enough that he was taking orders from somebody who was most probably a descendent of the little green men who were said to have pots of gold waiting at the end of the rainbow, wherever that was.

The commander scanned the satellite photos of their current adversary, a towering 45-foot hulk of what appeared to be some kind of metal out of some kind of video game. Its reverse-jointed legs and "walking tank" design fit perfectly into the "mech" robot category, probably first shown in Robocop as Enforcement Droid 209 and popularized further by the "Mechwarrior" franchise. "Whoever designed this thing certainly wasn't at his peak of creativity…" It was practically a direct rip-off of Mechwarrior's Clan Mad Cat Omnimech, right down to the last missile pod.

_Sixteen good men… Sixteen, dammit!_ O'Harren remembered counting the names on the list of _his_ pilots who were shot down during the D-Reaper's occupation and were now either missing, or dead. They went down on _his_ watch. Vice Admiral Sean "The Leprechaun" O'Harren never lost a bird. That was the first striking blow to his ego; saying that he wasn't perfect; that he made mistakes; that he needed to be ready to take the blame for the loss of their lives, but more importantly to his greedy capitalist superiors, that millions of dollars' were lost with each downed aircraft. He didn't bother with the planes. They were expendable, unlike his pilots - men who were, as far as God in all his glory was concerned, irreplaceable. Those days were over, however. He'd learned from his mistakes. Surely, their opponent this time around wasn't so formidable as that mass of computer data… was it?

"Squadrons Lima and Foxtrot have the target on radar," Meiyers reported from his place on the console. "Orders, Admiral?"

"Tell all squadrons to engage at will!" O'Harren's rage escaped from him in all of its terrible desires, namely to destroy the enemy. "We'll see how our mysterious giant robot-"

"Mech, sir…" Gavan corrected.

"Whatever - fairs against the full might of the United States Navy!" The sight of two sleek, black silhouettes in the night sky approaching the flight deck disturbed the flaming atmosphere that the good admiral's speech had set up. "What the bloody hell is that?"

It was then that his question was answered unknowingly by an incoming radio message, "Tango-Oscar-Niner, this is Bravo-Zero-Two with Zero-Three covering rear, requesting permission to land and engage in PMCS." Preventive Maintenance, Checks and Services… a handy little acronym, for those who were too tired to waste their breath on the words themselves. Apparently, Lieutenants Brigman and Hurrt had made it back alive.

_So the casualty count's still at one for the night… But the fight's only begun, alas._ "More are bound to go down…" The vice admiral solemnly watched the two lonely black birds descend onto the makeshift runway after their request was granted, like wedded eagles landing in a newly made nest. F-117's were a fine example of the application of the pinnacle of US stealth technology, employing the best of Lockheed and Martin's technicians for quite a few decades' worth of research and development. First used in Operation: Desert Storm, the F-117 Nighthawk had _never_ gone down in its entire service history. This was the first time for such an outrage to happen - which was bad enough; and again, it just _had_ to happen on _his_ watch, making it even worse than it already was. His stay in Japan had tarnished his once spotless record - _again!_

"Sir," Meiyers went, "The Lindsey and Ashley are requesting permission to use their turrets and Tomahawk Missiles in bombardment to support the planes… course of response?" Aside from the Kepler itself, the two other 'Big Berthas' of the battle group were the Battleships Lindsey and Ashley, both heavily armed from stem to stern with an assortment of heavy, light, long range and short range weapons. They were also loaded with a few dozen marines for fast action amphibious assaults. Battleships were the mobile fortresses of a fleet and were usually the flagships of battle groups, with the exception of carrier battle groups, where emphasis was put on the aircraft carrier instead.

"Are they mad?" O'Harren retorted, "The artillery in those turrets would clear an entire city block if misfired!" He couldn't risk another slip-up to occur at the last few months of his stay here. He was at the home stretch, the threshold of relief, and another disaster - one that would most likely involve civilian casualties - would label him as one of the most infamous naval commanders in America's history. Holly's battle group was going to be sent to relieve them and would arrive in three months, more or less, and that was exactly how much longer he had to hold on. _Tomahawks on the other hand… Precision is power._ "Tell them to forget the turrets, but give the okay on the Tomahawks. That's it…"

"Aye, sir…" Meiyers got back to work. He sent the reply over and less than five seconds later, the sparks of cruise missiles being launched from the two battleships off port and starboard could be seen, at least a dozen in number. This was going to be an interesting fight. Another message crackled through the transceiver. "Sir," he piped yet again, "We just received a transmission from the Japanese High Command. General Yagami's ordered a F.A.S.T. (Fast Action Security Taskforce) Division to provide support. They've already set up a perimeter within a one-mile radius of the target. Yagami's also saying that he's called in an air strike. They're gonna napalm the thing."

"Ridiculous," O'Harren scoffed at the idea, "Fire won't do so much as burn that thing's paint job. Tell him to call the strike off. It won't do any good anyway." It then hit him. _Fire might scratch its paint job… but a full-powered laser would burn it to a crisp. The only question now, is where I can get a - of course!_ "Commander Gavan, what can you tell me about the status of the Star Wars Project's unit D30-P7?"

"You mean the Satellite Defense Platform which never got its weapon's power output regulator installed?" Gavan knew a little bit of what was being done in the heavens above him, and was the best person on the ship - in the entire battle group, even - to ask such a question. "I think it's still up there, although the only way to gain access to it is to transmit its control codes up there via satellite uplink. And the only way to get those is to get to the President. Why? Are you planning to fire it or something?"

"Something like that…" O'Harren smirked that dirty smirk he always had whenever he had a devious idea in the progress of realizing itself. He was going to give that monstrosity double of what it had given him at this point. " Ensign Meiyers, get me the Pentagon."

Oval Office, The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.

Thursday, 1100 Hours, Local Time

"Mister President, it's General Kytell of the Pentagon. Line Two," the Secretary chimed in.

It was another day at the White House, more or less. President Stanley Darington had just gotten off Line One with the Director of Central Intelligence, who had notified him of just what the hell was going on in Tokyo. He had to admit, he was probably too stupid to notice that Bush had left one hell of a mess from his Middle Eastern and anti-terrorism campaign. Perhaps, at the time, he saw it as a responsibility to clean it up? Quite possibly… "Kytell? I wonder what he wants. Put him on, Stacey." The sound of a click was followed by the President's voice as he took the initiative to start the conversation, "Darington here…"

"Mister President, we are having one hell of a situation in Downtown Shinjuku…" Darington could tell that Kytell was from Texas, mainly because of his accent, and usually cowboy outlook on things. Ideas like "In Vietnam, we shot anything that moved which we didn't have any radio contact capabilities with."

"Yeah, I know… the DCI just told me about it. How's the battle group holding up?" That sounded a little bit too lax. _I wonder how Kytell's gonna react to that…_

"Sir, they just reported casualties. An F-117 Nighthawk and a couple of F-22 Raptors have been shot down so far. But that's beside the point." Kytell paused to recollect his thoughts. "The point is, they won't be able to take that thing down with that kind of firepower. Vice Admiral O'Harren, however, has a little idea about how we can compensate for his shortage of weapons."

"What do you mean?" More firepower? Ridiculous. The Kepler Battle Group was an example of what the Navy would call 'everything they've got'. And to some extent, it was true. It was a battle group comprised of all the elements the Navy had. Destroyers, battleships, PT Boats, an aircraft carrier, a company or so of marines, all military aircraft lesser in price than that of a B-2 Stealth Bomber, what more could one ask for? They had enough firepower to overthrow your average banana republic with ease and then some. What could Kytell be talking about?

"Sir, remember last year's report on the status of the SDI satellite defense system? You do know, of course, that they're still working on it in secret."

"Yes…" He thought about it. Three dozen or so of the myriad of satellites currently orbiting the planet were armed with an assortment of space-based weaponry: lasers, hypervelocity "railguns" cannons, microwave emitters, new and untested weapons… But none of the railguns were active yet, and microwaves wouldn't do much against a "mech." Furthermore, the laser-armed satellites were fitted with power output regulators to eliminate the possibility of the "Independence Day Scene" occurring, where one of them would misfire and destroy the White House with their sheer power output. The only thing they'd be able to destroy would be oncoming ICBMs that threatened America's safety. Lastly, nobody knew how powerful those new weapons were outside theory. "But I don't see how-"

"Remember the profile on D30-P7?"

"Look, General, I've got a lot of things to do today and you just haven't set up an appointment with me." Darington replied with a hint of exhaustion; and to think it was still another hour before lunchtime. "Just get to your point."

"Well, Mister President, D30-P7 is scheduled to have its power output regulator installed next week, and right now-"

"It's the last SDI Satellite Platform that can duke out enough damage to hopefully destroy that thing that's terrorizing Tokyo. And it's armed with one of the new weapons, making its first use an ideal testing session to see just how destructive it can get without firepower suppression. Am I right?"

"How'd you know that?"

Darington smiled. "The situation is too predictable, General. It's a good thing O'Harren remembered that. But… how does this concern me?"

"Mister President, you're the only man on the planet who has the control codes for every SDI satellite defense platform. O'Harren needs you to give the control codes and permission to use D30-P7 if he's going to destroy that thing!"

"Now I see your point… very well. If that's the case, then I'll call him myself." Darington was a reasonable man, all the more why he was able to take over after the other two presidential candidates, namely Bush and Kerry, died in a freak accident of ridiculous proportions. Sadly for him, though, his term was near its close and his current impression was a man who was elected to his seat to do nothing more than clean up the - as Hurrt would put it - international mess that Bush made with all his "War on Terrorism" campaign during his term. Not that the Darington Administration was happy about the current president's impression either. They were doing everything they could to help with that crisis, but nothing seemed to work.

"Thank you for your time, Mister President." Kytell put the phone down.

Darington switched his speaker on, "Miss Angstrom, please get the bridge of the USS Kepler on Line One. Note that any incoming calls while I'm on that line will be put on hold until I finish."

"Yes sir," the response was quick and professional, "Connecting you to the Kepler via Pacific Comsat Network."

It was then that Darington heard a ringing on the other end of the line. _Let's just hope those birds last long enough for this to work…_

Bridge, USS Kepler, Kepler Battle Group, Tokyo Bay

Friday, 0015 Hours, Local Time

"Name your conditions, Mister President, and I'll work with them." Vice Admiral Sean O'Harren could almost feel the tension of the conversation driving him numb. After all, he was talking to the, politically speaking, most powerful man on the planet; a man who held the fate of the world in the palm of his hand and could destroy it with the very words that would come from his lips during one of the direst situations conceivable. "As long as those codes get here in time."

"I assure you, Admiral, the codes will arrive shortly." President Stanley Darington's voice boomed out of the speaker. "The first of my conditions is simple. You realize that, officially speaking, SDI is neither under development, nor in operation. I'd like you to keep it that way, despite of what you're going to do. Whatever happens, you and your crew must keep silent concerning this." If the public found out that he was supporting the continuing development of the Star Wars Project long after its official 'abandonment' date, senator Hillman would probably win against him in a landslide victory during the next election, another five months away. Darkhouse had warned him about this, but did he listen? Why should he listen to that crazy bastard anyway? Vice President Alain Darkhouse was arrogant and self-righteous. Who cared if he was the direct descendant of a highly renowned Venetian official? He didn't have the humility his forefather probably possessed, although he was certainly as wise.

"Military Secrecy?" O'Harren looked around the bridge and took a good long stare at each of his subordinates' faces. None of them would talk about it and avoid court martial - or even discharge from the navy. "Our lips are sealed. None of this information will leave the bridge."

"What of the other crewmen in the battle group?" It would be best to play it safe, hence, ensuring none of this leaked out.

"Your orders are mine to give out, sir. They won't say a thing and get away with it." O'Harren paused. "And the other conditions?"

"My second condition is this: Hit it as hard as you can. I don't care what happens to the satellite because I'll have NASA take care of that. As long as that thing gets wiped off the face of the Earth, that's good enough for me."

The Vice Admiral smiled. The man was just as enraged as he was. "Sir, we just lost another apache!" Meiyers reported. "Casualties are getting worse… that's a total of eight for tonight." It was incredible enough that in the span of 20 minutes, he had lost half the total number of planes and pilots downed within the three-month D-Reaper period. He definitely needed to retire when he got home. It was doubtful that his pension would cover his debts to his country… and men.

"That, I am already arranging for." He nodded at Meiyers, who had just started to decode an encrypted message received from an unknown source. Those smartasses at the NSA were good for their reputation. The most advanced encryption and decryption technology on the planet was at their fingertips. The world's largest satellite-uplinked eavesdropping facility was also at their command, in the form of several hundred dishes in a heavily guarded installation in the middle of the Mojave desert. Maximizing the potential of that base gave the NSA the power to listen in on a daily average of 257 million phone calls, 15 million radio transmissions, and countless emails, trying to decode any underlying messages within the said means of communication. They had probably encrypted the control codes to ensure that the Russians or Chinese or any other antagonist nation didn't get their hands on what was currently the most dangerous satellite in orbit.

"Of course… One last condition, Admiral…" Darington was somber, now; probably one of those blatantly fake patriotic moments of his. It was going to be another nationalistic speech, wasn't it? O'Harren could swear he heard the 'Star-Spangled Banner' being played somewhere he couldn't tell, but was very close by. "I want you to remember why you're doing this. It's neither for me, nor for the Japs. It's for the boys you're supposed to be taking care of. It's for the nation you serve. It's for every last one of those fifty stars you see on the flag on your desk every day. Remember that. It's for America, and nothing but America."

"Aye, Mister President. For the red, white and blue it is…" the communication line was cut a moment after that. "Status of the control codes?"

"We've decrypted 85 percent, sir. And we're in luck, too." Meiyers grinned in anticipation, "Satellite Traffic Intel indicates that D30-P7 will be passing over Tokyo in two minutes. We'll have a perfect shot once it gets into its optimal firing position."

"Good to hear that, Ensign. And the birds?"

"Lost another two Raptors while you were talking to the President."

"Dammit! That's ten! Are the Tomahawks doing any good?"

Gavan brought a thermal image onto main screen. Large blue blobs were appearing and disappearing all over the scene, while the aircraft were also emitting little blue streaks that all seemed to be attracted to the target for some reason. _Vulcan cannons_, O'Harren surmised. Off both bows, sparks could still be seen blasting out Battleship cruise missile bays. "Apparently, nothing we're throwing at it is doing any good whatsoever. This thing's got heavier armor than a bomb shelter fit to withstand a nuclear blast and its subsequent fallout!"

"Code decryption is at 100 percent, Admiral," Meiyers butt in. "Satellite should be in position in one minute. Orders?"

"Upload the codes and order all birds to fall back in 45 seconds." A malfunctioning tomahawk whizzed past the bridge and into the water just meters to off starboard, rocking the massive vessel as it detonated underwater. "AND TELL COMMANDERS CARTER AND REISS TO QUIT IT WITH THOSE GODDAMNED CRUISE MISSILES!"

Another ensign got to work on the latter while Meiyers carried out the former, "Aye, sir. Control codes are Delta-Five-One-Tango-Hotel-Sierra-Tango-One-Romeo…" The sheer silliness of the code amused him. _Convert the numbers into their alphabetical equivalent, read it as a word, and we have 'Deathstar'. They don't call it the Star Wars Project for nothing…_

Three-hundred miles above Tokyo, D30-P7 had just finished locking its sights on the monolithic mech standing in the heart of the Shinjuku Ward. Its solar panels had picked up enough power over the past few years to support a highly charged anti-ballistics photon beam placed on it just for the sake of protecting the United States. The fact that its target area was heavily populated didn't seem to disturb the onboard AI one bit. After all, global coordinates indicated that it was an ocean away from the US western coast and several continents away from the eastern seaboard. If it didn't care about anything else but shooting down ICBMs that were heading for that certain area of land called the United States of America, why should it care about the puny people that lived in that city?

The only thing that could possibly disturb its current operational sequence, namely targeting and eliminating that iron giant, was a ballistic missile on a course for US soil. And at the moment? Its sensors picked up none. So far the better. One of the later designed and constructed of the SDI 'Defender-Thirty' series, it was the seventh to be armed with a Photon Projector instead of a standard Laser Gun, hence the code name D30-P7. It didn't fire concentrated laser beams, but instead hurled massive amounts of super-intensified photons - light particles - at missiles ensuring a higher damage area without sacrificing destructive power just to make sure it didn't miss. In a world where nuclear weapons were a common commodity on the global black market, a nation with a high possibility of being attacked could never be too careful.

Power output regulators stabilized the photon charging sequence to ensure nothing bad would occur. Four diamond-shaped solar panels surrounded the core area, where just about everything else was located, giving some eyewitnesses who'd spot it on clear nights the impression that the aliens had a thing for making money as well. Its firing system was in the middle of its startup sequence.

_Solar Cell connection completed. Light Amplification rate at 1734 original intensity. Estimated total Solar Cell power consumption: 100 Gigajoules. Status of Power Output Regulator: Not Applicable. No Power Output Regulator detected. WARNING: High risk of power overload and structural decay. Recommend installment of Power Output Regulator prior to continuation of firing sequence. WARNING: Overriding safety system might cause software confusion. Are you sure? Y/N. Safety system overridden. Power levels at maximum efficiency. Arming Photo-Projection Chamber._

A roughly cylindrical appendage, with a diameter of approximately twenty yards, extended from the center of the core area, taking pinpoint aim at the blue and green sphere below. Its massive opening was pitch black, save for a few glowing orbs that reverberated inside - the photon collection system - and began to unleash massive amounts of light throughout the chamber, eliminating the former darkness. _Photon Projector Armed. Photon collection at 75. Initiating countdown: 15 Seconds._

"Yeehaw!" The last missile that impacted onto the mech's surface drew forth the desired reaction. Lt. Commander Jason Daggett cheered for that. This was, of course, in addition to all the other missiles and Vulcan rounds that have been spent on it so far, not one even grazing the thing's paint job. For some strange reason, the continuous bombardment dealt by the Tomahawk missiles had been halted by their abrupt disappearance. That didn't make anything better. So far, this thing was trying very hard to shoot his boys down… and succeeding.

The apaches, on the other hand, had better chances of dodging, them being more maneuverable and all. F-22's were designed for speed and its vector quantities during high-altitude aerial combat, not its close quarters equivalent. It was quite hard dodging bullets and lasers and missiles with all the cityscape blocking their way. This was a fight for choppers, but since Raptors were the Kepler's strong point, so be it. Daggett's radio squawked with Meiyers' voice, "Lima-Zero-One, this is Tango-Oscar-Niner. Please be advised, you are now under orders to make a full retreat. I repeat, fall back now!"

"Reason for such orders, Tango-Oscar? Me and my boys never leave without one." Daggett launched another maverick - his last maverick - at one of the mech's gatling guns. What happened next surprised him. "Hot damn! Would ya look at that! The thing's jammed!"

"You see that dark and gloomy sky, Zero-One? Well in a few seconds, there're gonna be some lights coming down from there. You'll know what I mean if you've seen "Independence Day," And Meiyers knew Daggett had seen "Independence Day". They watched it together one afternoon, and Daggett said it was crap. "So you Brown Shoes had better get yer FUGAZI asses back over the bay ASAP!"

Hearing such a message shook Daggett to the point that he flipped through to the main frequency. "Okay, boys, new orders from hindquarters. Sparky Meiyers says it's time to make the big one-eighty and hit the go button on those afterburners, 'coz this airshow's just been cancelled. I repeat, the airshow's been cancelled." He toyed with his joystick until his plane was facing the bay. _REMF…_ though pretty much senseless in the case that it was an army acronym, that was pretty much how Meiyers seemed to him at the moment. Daggett's F-22 was pursued by several others, choppers falling back at their own pace. The retreat had been sounded.

"Look at that, Ryo! They're leaving! The losers are leaving!" Techmon chuckled. This was merely his ultimate form, and the cheap American losers were already peeing in their pants. Who'd have thought that the most powerful air force on the planet would chicken out on a digimon that hadn't even digivolved to his greatest form?

"That's what happens when you start fights, buddy." Ryo's voice came through the built-in comm.-link. "Weaklings run away. And in quite a hurry, too." He brought the binoculars down from his eyes, which were starting to hurt. This experiment was over. It was a major success. This simply meant that Mechmon was currently the most powerful fighting machine - _no, warrior… gotta remember the good old days. He's a warrior! My partner!_ - the world has ever seen. He just shot down a dozen planes and half a dozen helicopters or so. _That_, in itself, was an achievement.

The Digimon King reclined on the bench. The night was beautiful and he wasn't going anywhere soon. After all, the next day was his off day, and he was just starting it early. Maybe he'd leave in a couple of hours after getting a little shut-eye. "Oh, and Techmon, you'd better devolve and get out of there before people start thinking you're a new city monument of some sort." No response. "Techmon?"

"Ryo, I'm detecting some sort of temperature disturbance in the upper atmosphere… it's approximately at 3000 degrees Celsius and rising… closing fast as well."

"Say what?" Techmon was right. There was something wrong about the clouds despite the seemingly perfect night. They were glowing a strange ethereal blue. Ryo had read about aliens in the public library some time ago. He never thought they were real, though. But what kind of alien spacecraft emitted 3000 degrees worth of heat? "Tech, you'd better hustle and move now!"

"I'm on it!" It was the exact moment that Techmon reverted to his rookie form when the patch of cloud above him suddenly swirled apart to make way for a pillar of blinding blue light to descend upon the hapless digimon. Mechmon's sensors flared past 3000 degrees Celsius, telling him he'd been hit by a high-powered laser of some sort, searing his protective digital armor and effectively blowing him down into the subway network that ran beneath downtown Shinjuku. Ryo wasn't the slightest bit worried. That armor could withstand anything thrown at it. A mere laser wouldn't possibly be capable of even scratching it. He'd be waiting for Mechmon. He'd be waiting.

"A direct hit, Admiral! We got that sonovabitch right where we want it!" Commander Dillon Gavan reported from what the satellite imaging showed him. The thing's signal had vanished and its entire immediate vicinity was a burning blue on the monitor. It was a bull's-eye if he ever saw one. "Orders?"

"Bravo Zulu, everybody. Now, Ensign, give me the status of that satellite." O'Harren rubbed his beard. _In your face, Holly! Let's see you do that during your stay here! Not that I want something like this to happen to this place again…_ He brought up and finished his fourth cup of instant cappuccino that night. He seriously needed some sleep. The fleet was quiet now, save for the sound of returning fighters and choppers. Total casualties for the entirety of the mess: twenty-six. In one night he'd practically broken his casualty record for his term in the country by ten additional deaths! What was the rest of the Admiralty going to say? He definitely needed to retire.

"Admiral, D30-P7 is pretty banged-up." Meiyers said. "Energy surge from overheating seems to have caused some serious structural decay. She's falling out of orbit and will reenter the atmosphere in T-minus 31 hours, more or less. We can't hope to save her."_ So much for the Deathstar… _

"We'll let the Pentagon take care of their little satellite. That's their problem." Gavan was pretty much a little heartless at that point, yet sensible. That falling star was no longer their responsibility. "Sir, our current problem is to think of a cover story when the paparazzi hunt us down tomorrow morning." No doubt, the media was probably already onto them, and time wasn't really on their side at the moment.

"No need to fret, Commander." The Vice Admiral crushed the Styrofoam cup and threw it into the nearby wastebasket. "I have the perfect solution. Contact General Yagami concerning the media. Ask him to prepare a statement for the press from me."

Wilkins surveyed the landscape. The woods beyond the clearing concealed everything inside from his sight. Above all the bloody shifts that could have been assigned to him, why oh why did he have to end up with the nightshift? Sure, the sun was still up, but very low, practically kissing the horizon. He checked his watch, "Eighteen-hundred-ten hours. Bloody hell." He still had another seven hours and fifty minutes to go, and already he was sleepy. Maybe he shouldn't have woken up in the morning just to watch "Pots and More". But he just had to.

Wilkins had a thing for pottery, and just about anything that could be made by molding clay and baking it in a kiln. In any case, another minute had passed. Time to radio Robertson again. He reached for his walkie-talkie and wondered again why they had to contact each other once every ten minutes or so. Bloody waste of batteries. "All clear so far, Lenny. How are things going on over at your side?" The lack of an immediate response caused a second transmission. "Lenny? What the bloody hell is going on over there?" More static. "This isn't funny, Robertson. If you're trying to play me, I am going to complain to the chief of security about your-" _Spat! Spat!_ Wilkins dropped his radio as he followed suit, falling face-down onto the concrete pavement, completely unconscious.

Lieutenant Donald Hillers smiled at his handiwork as he chambered another round. Those two guards wouldn't wake up for another four hours. When they do, they wouldn't remember a thing. Sunset was an ideal time to strike any target. The guards have just changed shifts, so the newcomers were still adjusting to the darkness. Not that it would help them protect their charge any better. The woods were so thick that the guards wouldn't be able to notice a non-camouflaged Abrams Tank in there even if it were parked just fifteen yards from their patrol route. Besides, the guards here worked for pay. They probably wouldn't even know what they were protecting if it weren't for the high voltage warning and chain link fence. Hillers reached into his earpiece and established a secure com line between himself, the rest of the team, and the command post. "Lone Wolf, this is Pack Leader. The guards have been dispatched. It's your show now, so why don't you bring on the fireworks?"

"Copy that, Pack Leader. Proceeding to target location and prepping the charges."

Hillers spotted six shadows emerge from the tree line across his location and approach the fence. The front most drew a spray-can and emptied it into a circle wide enough for a fairly large man to walk into. After the can's contents were used up, the first silhouette kicked a spot in the middle of the circumference that he sprayed. The area within the circle fell inward and clattered onto the cement until it rested. The SIS team had just used a can loaded with some new laboratory concoction that accelerated the oxidation rate - i.e. rate of rusting - to the point where it was near instant. Lone Wolf crept into the small compound carrying a large knapsack. The charges. "Hope you know what you're doing, Murphy… those C-6s are far more powerful than the plastic explosives you're used to handling."

"How different can they be from C-4s, Hillers? They're still plastic explosives…" Hillers spotted Murphy stick a handful of the stuff to the eastern wall. "Don't tell me I put too much either! The more charges, the better!" Pack Leader watched patiently as for the next minute or so, the team spread out and planted charges all over the facility; under Murphy's supervision, of course. He checked his watch. Eighteen-hundred-thirteen hours. Only three minutes have passed since the op began. It would be over in a matter of moments. Murphy's voice rang through the com line, "Alright, team! Clear out! This one's mine…"

Murphy stepped out of the fence, last man back from the demolition site. This was going to be a blast. He stepped back into the woods and smiled as he flipped the lid off his remote detonator. After the structure blew, they would still go in to check it out just for the hell of it. _Lights out, fireworks in… _An insignificant fraction of a second after Murphy pushed the button on his remote detonator, the night was illuminated by a brilliant fiery blaze, the explosion hurling thousands of pounds of concrete and assorted construction-grade metals in every conceivable direction. In the distance, Xabercom's usual nightly glow, which, on any normal occasion was almost enough to duplicate daylight, abruptly vanished.

As the cinders, embers, and fires died out, Hillers began contemplating on why he even agreed to have his unit assist Murphy do something this reckless. In any case, it was time to survey the damage and sort through the leftovers - scraps to be more realistic. "Wolf's Lair, this is Pack Leader. Power has been disabled. Freelancer and Fox Queen are cleared for entry."

"Affirmative, Pack Leader," Sloane's voice responded. "Freelancer and Fox Queen have been notified of clearance and are proceeding into target compound. Be advised that entry team and Navigator have broken off radio contact with us to avoid detection. Nice job, Pack Leader. Finish checking the area and return to base."

"Roger that, Wolf's Lair. Pack Leader out." Hillers switched frequencies, "Hurry up and finish the inspection, gentlemen! I bloody promised my son we'd watch the game at Wimbledon tonight!"

Murphy kicked over the last standing wall - hardly even standing - and proceeded to the remains of the power house to check on the interior generator. It was… how did those bloody Americans put it? FUBARed… Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition/Repair. Although the primary generator was toast, the backup generator couldn't possibly have been damaged. It was protected under a concrete-steel mixture of a floor over a dozen feet thick. It was time to see how much longer those lassies, Orimoto and Nonaka, had before somebody went up and said, 'Let there be light.'

The NS-3 Officer's eyes wandered over the primary generator's charred surface; down to the item which the schematics identified as the countdown timer indicating how long before secondary generator went online. Something was wrong. "Two and a half minutes?" The countdown was in its final stage. The blast must have caused some sort of fluke to occur in the electronics. "Is that why Hillers wanted me to cut down on the C-6s?" He switched frequencies to NS-3. "Wolf's Lair, this is Lone Wolf, come in. Sloane I need to talk to you now, dammit!"

Sloane was jerked by the sudden outburst, spilling half of his evening tea all over his suit. _Damned Irish bastards…_ "What the bloody hell is it, Kevin? You sound like the sky is falling over there!"

"Tell Orimoto's team to pull out now! The countdown timer's been scrambled! They only have a little over two minutes before the emergency power activates! I repeat, the countdown timer is several minutes ADVANCED!"

Now Sloane spit out what was left of his cup, officially wasting his pre-dinner tea and rendering his biscuits useless. "I can't! They're on radio silence…" The NS-3 Deputy Director's face became grim. "It looks like they're on their own, Murphy. You've done your part. Now return to base."

"But sir-"

"That's an order, Kevin. And I mean it." Murphy could only comply.

Darkness abounded. It's been that way for as long as he could remember. He would always meet another one of them in the dark. For the most part, they fought there. There were some instances, however, where he would make friends in the blackness, although all of those of his kind he considered friends were already dead. Either by his own sword, or by that of some other, whom he no doubt had already beheaded as well. But right now he knew who he was going up against. There was nobody else left, after all.

Cameron MacLeod smiled to himself as he drew his seventh century katana. This specific one was forged by the great Masamune himself, given to him by his mentor, whom by this time, was also probably dead. He strolled out of the aisles of crates, beams, and whatnot into the clearing of the warehouse. "Come on out now, dear. Don't be shy. Surely by this time you know that it is useless to hide. I know you're in here somewhere. I can feel you. And I know you feel me as well."

He swung his sword around, beheading a non-existent somebody who was hiding behind a nearby shipping crate. Sparks flew as the noise of metal against metal resounded throughout the vast storage facility. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…" he teased with a noticeable amount of spite in his voice. From the information he had garnered, this little pest had an affinity to cats. After all, she _did_ have a cat at home. Not the ordinary household feline, mind you, but one of the artificial variety… the talking kind… that stood on its hind legs… and wore gloves on its forelegs' paws… and had a fuzzy purple tail end… and had extremely annoying baby blue eyes that made him want to gouge them out with a blunt ceramic spoon and toss them into a cauldron of boiling oil.

Above almost all things, MacLeod _hated_ cats. A few exceptions which he hated even more were Digimon that resembled cats… and humans who partnered them… and Digidestined who liked cats. Lucky for him, Hikari Kamiya, who was one of what he categorized as exceptions, was like him now. An accident involving a joy ride in her brother's shiny red car and an eighteen wheeler truck on the same bridge as them had made her into what she was today. Now she had to play by the rules… the rules that he'd been following for the past eight centuries. Which meant she had to lose her head… just like everybody else. She was the last one standing between him and the prize… the prize of the game he'd been playing for the past eight-hundred years. It was either his head, or hers… preferably hers.

Too bad her brother died in the crash… from what the intelligence indicated, her brother had the potential to go far in the business world. Maybe with a little guidance from yours truly, he would have become one of the greatest executives in the modern world. Of course he couldn't have survived it. After all, half the car was ripped to shreds, and so was he. Fortunately for her, she was on the side that survived. The explosion, however, killed her nonetheless… temporarily, of course. She had 'come back' for her first time in the city hospital's morgue, changed in ways she could never have imagined at the time.

"Come on, now Hikari. Stop hiding from me. Your childish little charades will get you nowhere." MacLeod slashed at another shadow he thought he saw move; it didn't react. "You know that sooner or later this game has to end. After all, there can be only one." Within sight of the very corner of his eye, _something_ moved. This registered in his peripheral vision, provoking a reaction. He struck at the silhouette, expecting the aforementioned movement to be another trick his mind had been playing on him. His expectations, however, were soon disappointed. To the highlander's dismay, this figment of his imagination fought back, catching him completely off guard.

A teenage form leaped out from the shadows and began to attack MacLeod's katana quite furiously. He fought back, somewhat disoriented from the sudden amount of power that was being fed to his weapon. Stroke after stroke after stroke, he began to recover from his initial disarray and managed to gain a foothold of his own. He returned the following slash with a strike of his own, both blades locking into a draw. For the first time ever, Cameron MacLeod was staring face-to-face, eye-to-eye with Hikari Kamiya, the eighth child - child of light - owner of that accursed Gatomon. She looked back at him with a look he couldn't quite describe, although was very familiar with; that glint in her copper eyes that added to the feel. "What are you staring at?"

"Just like everybody else…" It was the look every other one of his opponents had on his or her face, the look that he was certain everybody else saw in his face. They were eager for the battle, yet, somehow, regretful of its necessity. That was the best way to describe it. A nostalgic outlook on the reality of it all. He pushed her back, only to be struck at yet again, this time, with even more effort put into each stroke. "Lineus has taught you well, Hikari. He must have truly trusted you to have given you the knowledge of how to maximize your sword's fury without sacrificing your balance."

"I've learned enough…" steel continued to duel with steel, saber with katana. "Lineus never told me if you were taught the same." Her next stroke was stronger than the last.

"I learned it for myself." MacLeod answered that strike with one of equal force. "Lineus has never trusted anybody the way he has trusted you. He even entrusted to you his own life. The power resulting from the severance of his head now flows through you; your very first quickening." A dirty grin found its way to the highlander's face, "Too bad he had to give that power to an undeserving little wench such as yourself!" Katana bashed saber, catching Kamiya off guard.

The two backed off from each other after that, a long silence enshrouding the darkened warehouse. For a moment, it was completely quiet. The child of light broke the silence, thrusting her index finger at the older immortal in defiance as her lips parted. "You have no right to insult what he died for!" With that, she redoubled her efforts and charged full force at the MacLeod, who was far more than ready to again begin parrying the following strokes of her saber.

The deadly dance of enraged proportions carried on with the highlander on his defensive. She slashed, he parried, and vice versa. Any spectator would've deduced it to be no more than a stalemate, a deadlock, a log jam. They were going nowhere fast.

_Slash_ - an innocent cardboard box sitting in the way was carved in two.

_ Parry_ - this caused quite a dent in MacLeod's katana.

_ Slash_ - he dodged as Hikari's saber cut deep into a wooden support beam and came out again, ready to strike once more

_ Parry _- the highlander stumbled on a stool that was behind him but stood up with regained composure almost immediately, blocking the next incoming attack.

_ Slash_ - the child of light yelled as she managed to cut her adversary by the torso, although it was but a flesh wound.

_ Parry _- sparks flew as the saber's edge scraped against MacLeod's katana.

He knew he shouldn't have underestimated her. _Rage does wonders for the body…_ It was either that, or the intense adrenaline rush that resulted from it. _Time to do a little morale degradation…_ _Slash_, "Why waste his time and talents on a weakling such as yourself?" _Parry, _"Lineus was foolish enough to think that you were capable of surviving on your own once taught properly." _Slash, _"He might've been correct in factoring your adrenaline into a battle but…" _Parry,_ "You seem to be worse off than he thought!"

Hikari swatted MacLeod's katana even harder this time. "That's it! Your head is mine, highlander!" The swordfight continued without another word as she began to gain the upper hand, constantly driving him back towards a brick wall, hitting everything that fell into the path of her saber whenever he managed to dodge, causing friction-based sparks to fly. If MacLeod didn't do something fast, he was going to lose his head to this little slut… and he could never let that happen. Too much was at stake for such an allowance. This was the final play of the game that was nearly as old as mankind itself.

The highlander thought fast and began to search for the right moment; the point where she was most vulnerable; the split second just after she swung that sword and lost focus in the attack. Her training might have taught her to keep her balance despite her constant assaults, however, her adrenaline was having an adverse effect on it nonetheless. _Like… right… THERE!_ His hands moved, swift and sure, guiding his blade from a parry to a thrust that went straight into her.

The eight child's eyes widened in realization as cold steel entered her being, sharp, precise, and powerful. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the numbing pain spread like noxious fumes throughout her body. Pale brown, neck length locks that should have been flying forward simply hung next to her face, suspended and bent awkwardly in an obtuse angle. The blade's tip, and pretty much of the rest of it exited her torso through her back, smeared a bright living crimson with her own blood.

Saber was dropped as she fell to her knees, staring wearily and somewhat defiantly at the victor, who smirked dirtily as he twisted his wrist, embedded blade following suit. She couldn't scream for the pain, the pain, was too intense, too much. Her universe currently had two centers: her adversary's hating face, and the unexplainably sickening sensation caused by the weapon that, by physical standards, was still within her.

Slowly, he withdrew. She could feel the battle-dented edge scrape against her internal organs, dealing more damage than what had already been accomplished. As soon as its presence left her body, she clutched at the graciously large run-through wound in her abdomen. It stung like hell. MacLeod swerved the blade into what looked like a beheading position, and finally spoke after minutes of silence. "I suppose the best way to disarm your enemy is to run him through. The natural reaction for somebody who's been run through is to get down, either on all fours or his knees, depending on their pain tolerance. I'm surprised you're part of the latter group. We might be capable of living forever, but we can still feel pain. And as much fun as this battle has been, I'm afraid we've reached the point where I have to remind you, my dear Hikari, that there can be only **_one_**. Have you anything to say?"

Kamiya looked up at her would-be killer, perhaps for the last time, vision blurred, and uttered what sounded like something she honestly wished would happen. "Someday, somebody is going to come and take your head. It might not be tomorrow, and he might not be one of us, but mark my words, highlander… he _will_ come."

A thoughtful look found its way to his face for a moment before he smiled toothily. "My dear, you seem to have become delusional. Allow me to cure that problem the way we Scots know how." Hikari's head flew off into some darker corner of the warehouse as the bloody katana found its way through her neck. A small pendant-like object found its way to the floor in front of the highlander's feet. This he picked up with a slight interest and examined it more closely, raising it above his head and viewing it from several angles before concluding on its identity. "Crest of Light indeed," he muttered in slight disappointment at what it turned out to be. "Didn't even help her out the slightest bit tonight."

That was when it hit him; a sensation so powerful it was beyond anything a mere mortal could comprehend. Several bolts of lightning began channeling themselves through the Crest of Light and down body, the live current coursing through him with several thousand megavolts of power, more than enough to burn any human. MacLeod and all the others he'd beheaded were hardly human. This was the most intense one yet. But what else could he expect? It _was_ the last time he was going to experience this glory. He raised the crest even higher with his left hand as he supported his right hand with his katana, which he'd thrust into the ground.

Bolts continued to strike the weakened highlander. Light bulbs all over the warehouse exploded from the sheer power as windows shattered and crates were tossed about by an unseen force. The spectacle continued; MacLeod was now reveling in the experience instead of breaking down from the intensity of it all. All this time he had been shouting incoherently, not seeming to notice the mysterious mist-like substance that had risen from Hikari's decapitated corpse and was entering his being. The final quickening was now in full circle. Kamiya's - and Lineus' - power was being absorbed into him. Every last watt.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it ended. MacLeod dropped onto his belly, katana lying on the ground, Crest of Light clutched tight in his left hand. He'd done it. He won the game, the prize. He was now _the one_. The last of them all. In retrospect, he had Lineus to thank for all of this. All the times they'd shared together as teacher and student flashed in his mind as everything else went black.

The next thing he felt was the sensation that he was lying down at a certain angle. Further more, there was a weight over his eyes, which he dispatched of soon enough. What followed was a powerful bombardment of light. And he didn't like that. "Simulation Completud, boss," a scientist in front of him explained. This was no ordinary scientist, however. This was Xabercom's Director of Research and Development, Dr. Ludwig Werner, also one of MacLeod's closest friends. He was one of the few mortal people to know of the highlander's true identity.

"How close was that Sim to the true final quickening?" MacLeod had personally requested a simulation for the final quickening, as something to prepare him for the real deal. All that hubbub he got about Hikari being Lineus' pupil was simply part of the scenario, downloaded by Simaster 4.7.3 into his brain. Where that crazy idea came from? Dreams. For some reason, he had dreams about these fictional characters… morbid ones similar to what he had just witnessed. Although Hikari Kamiya indeed wasn't real, his dislike for cats etc. was. So was Lineus. The latter, however, was already expired. He'd taken the old fog's head himself, not even thinking twice about it.

"Qvite close. I'd eshtimate a point zheho shevun pehshent mahgin of error." More than anything, MacLeod wanted to prepare for the time of _the_ final battle, which, as he could remember, was one or two heads away. And that wasn't so far away. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, the Highlander was certain that he'd win. He didn't know why, he just was.

"Close enough indeed. How's the R&D on the Commac Project?" he stepped off the platform and fixed his navy blue suit, realigning his dark red tie with his collar. One downside to Sims was the fact that bodily movement and nervous reactions ruffled your clothes no matter how much you were pinned down. _Bloody platform._ The next thing on his agenda was what Marlon had tasked his Agency Office to take care of: those mechanical nightmares that would soon be on the global black market, sold for billions to the highest bidder.

"Still vorking on za specifics. Jhou know how hard it is to handle somezing ve did not develop ourselves." The klaxons began to sound, destroying the formerly quiet mood of the place. "Hmm… inthudas. Phobably vhy zee pover vent out earlier."

"Perhaps they're trying to steal some of our uncompleted ion-based weaponry. You know how rival corporations enjoy ripping off from us. Even though we already announced our development, once they beat us to our own goal, they'll sell them to armies the world over claiming the stolen research was _theirs_ to begin with… bloody maggots." MacLeod was ill-informed about the incident at the previous meeting and knew nothing about NS-8's spying on their plans for the next year. To him, everything was normal and was not priority. "Get Smith on this." The highlander reclaimed his sheathed katana from the weapons confiscation officer who waited at the door to the lab. "By the way, Werner," he turned around in the doorframe, "Try to finish the new designs and Commacs in a month or two," and walked out.

"Vill do zat." Werner began contemplating on where to go next. His boss was certainly going to be pleased at the development of Commac Omega. Sure, it was just an idea now, but the scientist had great vision and in a month or so, it would probably already be in the testing phase. "Jusht vait till jhou zee my mashtapiece, chief."

To be continued… hopefully…

_Not damned good at all…_ Zoë was finished. She didn't have to see it to know that she was caught between a rock and a hard place. Behind her, the blast doors had shut. In front of her were at least a dozen muzzles of assorted rifles and sub-machineguns, as well as the not-so-friendly-looking security team members who were holding them in the first place. She raised her arms to surrender, dropping her Beretta as she did. _There's only one way out of this…_ She slowly kicked the fallen firearm in the troops' direction, just as instructed by the team leader. If only she could reach her D-Tector.

"That's a good girl," Smith grinned behind his faceplate as he picked the up the sidearm and holstered it. "Now put your hands behind your back, and turn around…"

_Perfect!_ She did as told. Only instead of keeping her hands behind her back, the warrior of wind reached for the D-Tector and spun around again, to face her would-be captors, catching them off guard as she started, "Execute-"

"The little bitch has got a bloody digivice!" How could somebody of his caliber fallen for such a simple trick? Only one concept floated through his head at that very moment. "DROP HER NOW!"

"Spirit Evo-" If ever she managed to finish her statement, nobody would have heard it, as all sound less than a hundred decibels was rendered mute by the combined noise of several different types of rifles and sub-machineguns simultaneously opening fire upon her, armor piercing slugs penetrating the Kevlar suit and lodging themselves within various parts of her body. Izumi Orimoto was as good as Swiss Cheese.

AN: Nope, Takato didn't seem to be of any importance to this chappie, so I skipped him ; This was actually already done by Christmas 2004… just didn't feel like uploading it for some strange reason or another. I'll try to get the next one out this summer. Blargh… must be all these ideas crowding my head. Zoids, Advance Wars, Harvest Moon, Monopoly, Bleedman's Cartoon Network Doujinshi. The only reason I actually convinced myself to post this was simple: I sat down at my computer last night, trying to finish a project for my Philippine Language Class. I started Windows MP, and picked a playlist to listen to while I was working. It just so happened to be the playlist jam-packed with all the Digimon MP3s I had managed to download so far. So what now, you ask? I'm back into Digimon! Now all I need is a good Digimon game to play, coz Battle Spirits I and II don't exactly cut it out for me… I NEED A PLAYSTATION FOR RUMBLE ARENA, DAMMIT!

Oh, yeah, and here are some new militaristic vocabs I picked up when I was conducting research on my term paper… the topic? How Tom Clancy's Patriot Games is related to chess… I barely passed.

Commander - Naval equivalent of Lt. Colonel

Lt. Commander - Naval equivalent of Major

Vice Admiral - Naval equivalent of Lieutenant (3-star) General

FUGAZI- US Military Slang Acronym for "Fucked Up, Got Ambushed, Zipped In"

Brown Shoe - Things and people related to the naval aviation community. From the time when brown shoes were only authorized for aviation ratings and officers.

REMF - US Army Acronym for "Rear Echelon Mother Fucker"; a micromanaging, interfering back room commander

Sparky - US Military Slang for anybody having to do with radios and electronics


End file.
